Sleeping Ashes
by GreenAngel16
Summary: Homicide Detectives Harry Potter and Severus Snape prefer to work alone but when Chief Superintendent Kingsley forces the two to become partners they must befriend one another. (Finished summary inside) AU Non-magic.
1. Prologue

Summary: The year is 2011, set in London, England. Homicide Detectives Harry Potter and Severus Snape prefer to work alone but when Chief Superintendent Kingsley forces the two to become partners they must befriend one another. Snape is 30 years old, cold, snarky, sarcastic, perverted and always a bastard. Harry is 25 years old, a hopeless pushover, short, clumsy, and sometimes unbearably naïve. Despite their flaws and inept social skills they are very gifted when it comes to solving the rising crimes that plague their London city. Can Harry protect his sanity under Snape's sinister stare? Can Severus unlock Harry's mysterious, forgotten past? Can they keep up with a new serial killer that patrols through the nights like a ghost, leaving behind no evidence?

AU Non Magic, M/M

Inspired by the book _In the Woods_ by Tana French, the BBC's _Sherlock, _and the animated series drama _Antique Bakery _by Fumi Yoshinaga.

**Warning:** This story deals with many sensitive issues that are not suitable for everyone and contains mature and graphic content.

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**Sleeping Ashes **

**By GreenAngel16**

"_We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience."_

-Pierre Teilhard de Chardin

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**Prologue**

They were prey. They were children. They were taken, all of them. Either from the streets, from shops, from parks, from their beds; they were stolen from us. They were snatched up from the world, their world, their warm and adoring homes, their oblivious and loving families, and shackled into darkness. Their innocent, wonderland lives had come to an end in that instant, stripped away so effortlessly that it could have looked almost graceful.

And why? An unlocked window perhaps? In another country on holiday? You forgot to keep your eye on them every second of every minute when you took them to the park, a simple routine outing meant for fun, for relaxation, or to hear them stop screaming out their desires so much that it was driving you absolutely mad. But the reason why drove you insane too, I know. That _real_ insanity that no child could ever bring you. The pain was of course, so bad that you felt you needed to rip out your heart for it to stop. Just wretch open your chest cavity and reach in and take it out, because it felt like that in those first 24 hours, it always does. You choked on those tears, didn't you? You cried so much you could hardly see or breathe or think or make your shriveled, burnt out brain work to advise your shaking hands to find that picture that the commissioner needed along with those round about questions that they hammered into your skull, into your memory that most definitely could blubber out the answers.

It's the same scene, really, when you simplify it. The same reactions, it's just procedure, it's sad, you know that, it's sad and it's horrible and you might have a kid of your own, a kid at home sitting comfortable and sleeping on the couch with your wife and he or she is there, you know they're safe, they're warm, they're breathing and alive and yet you know monsters are real, not the kind they ask to check under their bed for them, not in the bedroom closet but those monsters that have a face like yours, dress like you, act like you, act natural, don't profile yourself, don't draw attention. You know their faces, you have a list of them back at the station and you wonder if it's going to be easy, if it could be easy this time, maybe this one chance because god, these people look like they're suffering, a suffering you never want to know and you want to step back, you want to run from that house, don't you? Get in the car and drive as far away from those tormenting faces and it makes you sick for a while, for a few minutes but you know it's just your job, but maybe you should have called in sick today, taken your wife and your kid out to the movies, got some take away and you and your wife put the kid down early and maybe right now you'd being fucking her and you wouldn't have a single care in the world but feeling her skin, burying yourself in the smell of her hair, because you love her and because your life is perfect but in a sense it's not because there are monsters, you know, you know they're out there, they're either stupid punk ass prats or they're that real evil, that evil that stabs, that murders, that kills, that spills that blood you've seen before on those dirtied sidewalks, that hides their face so the cameras couldn't catch it, that feels revenge, feels powerful, feels lonely, feels wicked and crazy and victorious and greedy and that wrath and temptation that you couldn't ever understand and then there's that one kind that you know, you feel it in your bones, you're dealing with it tonight; those sorts of monsters that blend in with the crowd, that smile so easy and authentically, that approach as if coming in with the breeze; they plan, they scheme, they desire, they scout, they approach, they fall in that repulsive love, and they bribe, they smile, they promise, they lie, and then they take, they steal, they ruin the world in what? Five minutes, it could have been, maybe less.

You blame yourself, yeah, you do, you want to keep the walls from falling down, keep normal from crashing all around you. You know it happens, you know but never to you, not your family, not your child. You wish you never had them, never brought them into this kind of life where these demons exist.

And the questions make your heart wretch, make the seams inside you tear, like your veins are splintering.

How tall are they? How old are they? What were they wearing? Eye color, hair color, shoe size, weight, any distinguishable scars or birth marks, any nicknames, had they been angry with you that day? Have they ever run away before?

No, no, she's only five, she's never a problem, she never leaves my side, she's short, she's skinny, she has brown eyes, _brown _I said. She, she has this stuffed purple bunny, she had it with her and her hair, it was in a braid, she had on Cinderella trainers, she begged me this morning to let her wear them, god, oh _god, please_, you have to find her, she's my baby, she's my _baby_.

Ma'am, you have to calm down, we're doing all we can…

They're not doing enough, you think, they don't even care or they would have found them by now. And you can hardly keep up, you just can't _keep up_ because your world is ending, you know that? It's the end of the world.

And you hated it, you didn't know what else to feel even though the minutes were ticking by, it was getting dark, were they alone? It would have been better if they were alone, right? That's what you thought because if they were with someone, if they were in someone's car, if they were miles away hidden in some basement—

But you can't think of it, you can't think of that hell, of that nightmare and you wish all of this was a nightmare, that you wouldn't have gone out that day even if the sun was so bright, the sky so clear, the weather so fucking perfect. If you just stayed home, if you had just never left, you could have kept them inside; you could have protected them, you could have been better, you didn't know time could be this short, you took advantage of it, you took advantage of that comfort, that comfort that lied to you, coaxed you, you weren't prepared, you were naïve, you're a horrible parent. It might not be true. You might have done everything you possibly could, you could have been the greatest parent there could be but it didn't matter and you try to tell yourself that you can get through this, that there is still time, there is still hope.

It had happened hours ago, only hours ago, when you weren't looking or you were asleep or you went to price lamb shanks while they stayed by the cereal or their hand slipped out of yours when you were looking at a certain dress and you called mindlessly for them to stay within your sight or they went off on their bike with that dinging bell down the block a few times while you were on the phone with your mother, you thought the neighborhood was safe, it was still light out, or their brother would keep an eye on them, that's what older siblings are for right? But it was already over. Had it been seconds? Five minutes? Ten? Taken. The monster was there, targeting and preying and sneaking and smiling and maybe they had sweets or maybe they were in their car and reached out with that tainted hand and they grabbed, they pulled, they were much stronger, there was no chance.

And it mattered too, didn't it? Where exactly it had happened, right? In those first few agonizing, sickening, hellish, viciously miserable months; it meant the world to you where it had been and you had prayed frantically, ritually every night that the very worst hadn't happened, that they were still alive, damaged, most likely but that would be the better option, wouldn't it? Hurt and bruised and scarred but not dead, right? Just not dead, killed, thrown in some ravine, naked and lifeless and pale or buried or tossed in a rotting ditch or cut up and piled somewhere for the bugs to eat their flesh.

Or maybe death would have been the better option. They couldn't run in time, they couldn't fight even if they struggled, if they screamed before and god, why hadn't someone seen it? Why hadn't someone been there to save them? Didn't heroes still exist? Didn't they? Why was no one there for your baby? To intervene, to pick them up in their arms and scare away the shadows and bring them home and to stop the world from ending? Why couldn't they come home? Why did monsters like these people, these perverted groomers, these disgusting, depraved, sickening molesters exist?

You don't care if the commissioner says sometimes these people just spend a bit of time with them, right, you see, they take them and they drop them off and you want to slap them, you want to beat them, you want to kill anyone, release this boiling rage inside of you because the world is ending anyway, right? It's slipping away and the fear is eating you alive, shivering in your blood and burrowing deep inside you, you feel raped, you do, you feel that rape and that fear and that loneliness and that dark pit of the world's trash, of its hidden alleyways of deceit, of its secret, deceptive, sadistic corners all around.

But life is hard. It can be beautiful, yes, breathtaking and devoted and perfect and wealthy and there was laughter and that vibrant joy and innocence and solid experience and thrill and careless adventure and birth and dreams and wonder and sunlight and good, those good things, happiness, sex, love, attraction, that magnitude of existence that is so weighted in your mind where the universe throttles your idea of worth, of value. Life is busy.

And there's this good and there's this bad, the bad we try not to think about most days but it haunts the air, it trickles in through newspapers and the telly and the world wide web and your vast majority of social networking and it stares you in the face, true and genuine and mocking and loud. You ignore it; you ignore the blood, the videos, the screaming, the drugs, the rape, the war, the starvation, the greed, the hunger, the sickness, the drought, the terror, that hate. But it's there, at the tip, at the end, because death is bad too, isn't it? Death is wrong, death is terrible, death is the last goodbye. You don't know what's there behind that, it's just too big, too much for your scrapped intelligence to care about or to fixate or to fantasize or to provoke or imagine. You're scared, of course, everyone is at first. But death is inevitable and sometimes, sometimes you just go in the most horrible of ways.

It picks you up, it snatches, it creeps, its quiet, its kind, it smiles, it bribes, and it takes you, it rips you up, it violates you, it makes you scream and tremble and cry and what does it leave behind?

A stuffed purple bunny stashed in a bin twenty miles away from home, a bloodied uniform skirt, a blue trainer with the laces undone, a rainbow hairclip with one blonde strand fastened to it, a Christmas jumper, a pink bike with that ringing bell…and sometimes a body, most times a body, dead and cold and blue and broken and sometimes, like the stillness in winter of an icy stream, nothing at all, no trace, no fingerprints, no shoes, no blood, no screams, no witnesses, just gone, disappeared, taken.

And the world ends for them with that, in that moment for them, where they saw their silhouette on the ground and then they were lifted up like a bird and its worm, so easy, so fast, they are taken and sometimes it's hopeless, sometimes they don't get lucky and they don't come home and what of their parents? What is left behind for them?

Memories that fade into that gray shadow, edges crease and bend and tear and wither like un-watered flowers soaking up that burning sun. It leaves behind madness and rage and desolation and darkness and suffering and depression and photographs and videos saved all together in an old file that you return to less and less. You forget after years, you heal even though you don't want to but it's inevitable. They're gone and sometimes you never know their end, they never find a body, and years from then you think it's alright to have Christmas again, to have a summer again, to have a holiday and to touch your spouse again, you let yourself live again, you've cried enough, blamed yourself enough, died enough inside, grieved enough and the trail went cold years ago and you almost feel angry that no one else's child was abducted and you find it hard to realize how selfish and disgusting that is to think about but if someone else's baby had gone, maybe from the same park, or the same street, or the same shop, maybe there could be leads, could be a chance, maybe your child could come home…

But it's over, a lot of the times it's over. There are no leads, not enough DNA evidence, not even a slim chance, it was all guess work and sometimes it's too late.

And there are those who are missing, taken and never found, alive or dead, missing children whose photos I can't stop staring at. They cluttered the wall, sometimes pinned carelessly or secured behind glass, it's just variable but still, still I stare at them, at their faces that I engrave, I burn, I scorch into my memory. Their eyes look happy in most of them, happy and innocent and alive. I collect their names, like scrapbooking, like a hobby, it's just what I do, what I feel like I have to do, like it's my obligation, my job, my creed.

I stare at the pictures, the printed descriptions and how long they've been gone, calculating the years in my head and gazing at the computer generated photos that had been aged to show what they could look like now. I see a girl, she's four in this picture, Samantha L. James, blonde hair, blue eyes, last seen in Battersea Park, missing for two years and yet, here and to her mother and father, she'll always be four. And then there's Alex J. Moore, six years old, brown hair, brown eyes, abducted a block away from his primary school in Chelsea, missing for four years.

I can't pass them up most of the time, I can't ignore them, I have to look, I have to think, I have to wonder what their fates were, what happened to them, if they're dead or still alive and what sort of monster was keeping them, who had they grown up with, were they suffering?

I don't realize I've been staring for an hour holding my grocery bags, I don't realize it and I never do, not until some shop clerk kindly taps on my shoulder and I look to her and sometimes she's young, sometimes she's old, sometimes I recognize her if I've gone to my local grocers, other times I've driven further to not seem like I'm some kind of nutter or freak, but it's happened too many times, ever since I graduated.

She tapped me and suddenly the clustered noise of the checkout stands and busy people engulfed my ears. I turned my head to see her giving me a somewhat funny look and yet there was worry in her eyes that I can see even with the dark eye shadow and quickly done mascara. I didn't know what my face looked like, it felt blank to me. I glanced over her nametag that read: Jenny. She must be new here, I thought and I wanted to tell her why I was standing there, like most times when they've noticed me or when people stare at me. Everyone gets curious, I guess.

But I wanted to tell her so she didn't think I was weird. She was blushing. She was young, her black hair in a ponytail, her light brown eyes staring. She gave me a smile as if her words had become shy behind her glossed lips.

"Are you alright, sir?" she asked almost delicately. It's usually what they always ask. "Do you need help with something?"

"No, I'm fine, thank you," I said and it's usually what I always reply with. "Sorry, thank you."

I turned around and walked through the automatic glass doors and the willful summer sun enveloped me and the glares of cars were bright and the smell of the parking lot pavement was strong and mixed in with the aroma of fresh produce and chilled air conditioning. I wanted to tell her why I was standing there for so long, why I force myself to remember their faces, their innocent, staring faces, of those missing children, of those lost children, of those unknown futures, where parents would think of the day when they would see them again, that they would come running home, hurrying and hungry and smiling and they would be perfect, they wouldn't have aged a day and they would bring in the scent of the outside air, trainers stained with grass, hands needing a wash, perhaps a skinned knee, and their eyes would be big and young and wonderful and alive, the same, since the day they had gone away.

They had been prey. They had been children. They had been taken.

My name is Harry and for three years of my childhood I was one of them.

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A/N: So that's the prologue. What did you think? Please review if you have the time.

This story is a non-magic fic. Its genre is mystery/crime/romance. It addresses very sensitive issues throughout and I'm trying to stick with the real world rules of policing in London but, like every writer, I have changed some things and added fictional attributes to some of the settings to fit the story but I've done and am still doing a lot of research for this story so the first chapter will not be up for a while. I just wanted to place this here to be ready and I was getting anxious to start it so I did. I plan for this story to have a lot of action, a lot of drama, humor and of course romance and it will be a bit of a challenge to fit the Harry Potter characters into the story but I've come up with most of their profiles.

And Harry will have green eyes in this story.

I hope some of you are interested. I'm very excited to write this story and it will be my first attempt at mystery/crime.

Thank you for reading. I hope everyone is well.


	2. Chapter 1: Of Cats and Men

This is a work of fiction. I do not own Harry Potter; such rights go to J.K. Rowling and Warner Bros.

I have changed the year to 2011 instead of 2010, just to let you know.

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"Without contraries is no progression. Attraction and repulsion, reason and energy, love and hate, are necessary to human existence."

-William Blake

**Chapter 1: Of Cats and Men**

I don't really like driving. But when you grow up that's just what adults learn how to do if the opportunity is there. I remember in secondary school everyone being so excited to get their licenses and everyone talking about it as if it were something you must do or else it would be the end of all things. I wasn't one of them but I did learn and I did get my license at 17 like everyone else because to me, as it has been since I was almost nine, I don't ever want to find myself in a position where I have to depend on others. Yes, since nine I have always strived to be independent, _really_ independent and if I couldn't be, if I couldn't reach that then that to me would be the end of all things.

I don't know if that's the best way to live your life, people might see it as you being standoffish or sometimes cruel but I can't help it; somehow this idea got wired into my brain. Don't get me wrong, I have people who like being around me, a few, but I guess it's quite a challenge for me to open up to people.

Anyway, back to driving. I just don't know how to be one of those drivers who can do multiple things while driving. That isn't safe and no I'm not saying that because I used to be police officer, honestly I knew many officers who would drive like maniacs just because they could, no, it's just, don't people care about being safe? Or rather, the safety of those around? I mean, come on, you're in a hulk of metal, trapped in one really, and if something goes just completely wrong for no reason at all then it can get bad, I've seen it, I've seen a woman, dead and still bleeding, laying on her car's hood, lifeless. She hadn't been wearing her seatbelt, she hadn't been going the speed limit and when her car crashed into the SUV in front of her it was the end, her complete and utter end. Her head smashed through her windshield, she was sliced up by glass and then dead.

I still remember her and her bloody blonde hair strewn about and we had found her makeup bag and its contents scattered all over the front passenger area. It had been a nice day actually; big blue sky, sun a giant glowing bright lemon hovering kindly in it, puffs of clouds swished in odd places and then her dark blue hood gleaming and glinting and sparkling underneath her corpse, her eyes were still open, brown and unfocused, the light gone. She was mangled really but her face all makeup done and her long blonde curls flown about the glinting hood, her pale skin splashed with blood and smeared and sliced, her thin face just laying there like she was napping, though her arm bent under her head awkwardly, unnaturally, and I remember her ruby lips; they sparkled too in the sun, but her lipstick was smudged badly, a streak of that red slashed almost all the way up to her ear amongst the blood.

I remember the bits of windshield sprayed over the asphalt, sort of like diamonds and I remember the panic of the family from the SUV and the glare of my orange vest bothering my eyes and the whirling light of the ambulance vehicle and she wore a mini skirt, black and those really high heels, a white dress shirt, she had been going to work. It was a nice car, something sporty and it belonged to her boyfriend. I can remember, in the daze of it all and seeing her quiet, still form and the mother in the SUV making sure her two kids didn't turn around to take a peek and another officer talking to them to calm all three of them and the father looking so blank, sick it seemed. I had asked myself what kind of girl had she been? Young, yeah, 22 or 23 I think. Had she been nice? Had she been faithful? Did she want children some day? Or was she still thinking about parties and drinking and sex and if her breasts looked bigger in the shirt she purposely bought a size smaller? I didn't know but I knew her boyfriend cried when he found out, I knew her mother didn't, and I knew she wasn't a natural blonde…

There was a girl in front of me, a blonde in this blue mini coop _and_ she was doing her makeup. My car radio was low, the news, boring drabble but I was still tired since I didn't sleep much the night before, I didn't have the energy to turn on something upbeat. Don't get me wrong, I _love_ music, but today I was tired. I woke up early to go to the grocers and get things that we needed for the flat and then wound up wasting an hour staring at the photos _and_ there was traffic so I knew I'd be late for work but it's been slow since I've been back, not that slow is a bad thing but it just means someone having to mind the paperwork and shuffle through incorrectly done statements and no one, I repeat, _no one_, actually enjoys paperwork. It gets so bad some days that my eyes feel like their full of boiling water and someone's trying to jam a brick through my skull but that's just the job, it's what I worked at after I finished college.

I was headed home, the grocery bags sitting at my left. I drive a silver Honda Civic, new, simple, affordable; like I said, I don't like driving much and when it came time to buy another car after my battered Toyota slogged its last mile, I had gone to the dealership and looked around, uncomfortable under the eyes of the sale reps all following me and I just saw it and its reasonable price and picked it, no deep thinking involved. I'm simple about these sorts of things.

I live right next to Wadsworth Road on a street of row houses made of red brick and white borders and each has a blue front door and a small short walled front walkway. I've lived on the block for a year and had grown quite familiar with the certain ways our neighbors liked to keep their walkways. Like ours, there are plants or flowers like rose bushes or stocky shrubs; some are bare but for their garbage bins and everyone parks their cars by the curb.

Today, I thought, despite my sluggishness, was going to be like any other day. I'd come home with the groceries, step through the front door and be greeted by my girlfriend, Ginny, who I've been dating for the better part of two and a half years and she'd be busy getting ready for work and simultaneously eating a bowl of cereal; she's the type of girl who likes to sleep in as much as she can while I always wake up early.

But today wasn't like any other day. When I pulled into my parking spot I didn't know I would find Ginny stacking up boxes and bags outside our flat, pushing them towards the sidewalk out from our walkway with its vivid pink roses and green bushes. I didn't understand the picture at first; seeing her 23 year old body, slim and skinny everywhere, her dark red hair up in a hasty bun with flyaway locks cradling her bothered expression. Her cheeks were flushed; the blossomed hue dazzling against her fair skin and very light freckles that speckled her features. Her white skirt fluttered about her knees as she lifted a box and set it on top of another and she straightened her black blouse when she stood up and saw me as I parked. She crossed her arms. I knew this expression well; stern blue eyes narrowing and sparking with agitation, painted lips pressed together tightly. She was angry.

And then I realized in that span of a half a minute that the boxes and recycled department bags were all filled with my belongings. I won't lie, I hadn't seen this coming, well, not in this moment, not the night before, not a week before; but perhaps I had thought about it, a couple times a month for obvious reasons. I was being thrown out. A sense of stuttered bewilderment clutched my brain and the rush of it had my eyes searching all over those boxes and bags. Was this really happening? Just like that?

I got out of the car absentmindedly grabbing up the groceries and keys with both hands and pushing the door closed with the bottom of my dress shoe all the while my wide eyed look was on her.

"Ginny…what…what's this?" I said much slower than I wanted.

She stared at me, hard, that crystal blue moving back and forth across my face as her hands tensed over her arms where she gripped them, stressing the frail fabric.

"You know," she said swiftly, a phrase she picked up from me, "it _doesn't _take two hours to get milk and eggs!" Ginny grabbed up a bag and practically slammed it on top of a box and then returned to her previous stance.

"I was—"

"I don't want to know," she held out her hand to signal stop and I watched her lips.

"I can't," she began, her breath shaky. "I can't Harry, we…we're not working, this can't work…I can't do this with you…anymore, I _can't_."

"Ginny…can we talk about this?" my voice was rising with anxiety which I don't like because the tone of it gets much too high and I need to remind myself I'm not 14 but ten years older than that but it doesn't help my confidence any.

"Talk!? Now you want to talk!? After all the times, all the," she lowered her voice as she cussed, "_fucking _times I've tried—No, no, I'm not doing this anymore." Ginny had begun to shake her head, rapidly, something her mother always did but Ginny's was a much angrier version of it and I began to walk forward, my legs wobbly, the groceries sort of suspended stupidly in the air as I raised my hands, still trying to let the situation sink in that suddenly my home would become not my home in a matter of a morning trip to the grocers.

"Ginny…I…" But my mind was empty, cavernously so and deep down, not too deep really, relief was beginning to rise up inside of me, almost soothingly like a fire's heat after a long day outside in the biting frost. I felt, like I would always feel at the end of the day, guilty, like I had betrayed her and I would keep betraying her…

"I want you out," she said tartly and her eyes were filling with tears.

I couldn't believe, oddly, that she was crying when I was the one whose things had been packed away without my consent and heaped outside for all the neighbors to see and think _I knew the lad had it coming. They're always bickering, waking up the dogs. What's she doing with a man shorter than her?_ I know because I've heard the middle-aged ladies gossip with their matching jumper suits and yipping terriers though there's a woman next door to us, model tall with golden curls and chocolate brown eyes who Ginny thinks is always ogling me and I have no idea what would give her that impression but it's started a few fights between us some nights where, after, I wished someone would smother me with my own pillow…

"You're always working late, you stay out at night getting pissed at pubs, you're…" Ginny's tone was climbing, skipping with exasperation and her hands had come away, out in front of her to emphasize her list of reasons why she didn't want to cohabitate with me anymore, why she didn't love me anymore; I didn't blame her. "You're just never…with me Harry, even when you are you're…not _here_…and you…we haven't…"

"Ginny," I blurted, my face heating up radically.

She rubbed her forehead with her right hand, leaning her weight on her left foot as she eyed me up and down and I wondered if she was contemplating over exactly how pathetic I was.

"I just can't, Harry…" Ginny blinked furiously. "You have to go…You know it wasn't getting better…I don't have time…I'm not some thirty year old woman, Harry! This isn't what I imagined—!" She stopped herself, letting out a heavy breath, putting her hands on her hips.

All I could do was stand there and stare at her feeling exhausted now rather than tired, feeling it loaded on my shoulders and pulsing in my neck.

"Hedwig?" I muttered, my eyes lowering to the ground.

Ginny pivoted on her heel and walked into the house and in that moment I thought about our little backyard and furniture set she had bought on sale though the price still had been steep and I thought of the trees and the thick grass I sometimes laid in to feel the cool shade in springtime, of the little bugs that zipped about through the air, white butterflies landing on daisy flowers I had planted, of the tulips I had planted, of the daffodils I had planted, of the lilies I had planted and so suddenly was I mad and it wasn't a common occurrence with me; in fact, until two months ago people would probably say I was the one person who never got mad and yeah, my therapist says it's fine to get mad, it's _normal _to get mad but I don't like the feeling, I don't like how powerful it can get with me…

She came out holding the blue pet carrier and I could hear Hedwig's misgivings from inside; her low growling letting Ginny know, for the umpteenth time, that she didn't like her and possibly would never like her. She placed her on top of one of the boxes.

"Do you still want these?" I said halfheartedly as I raised the bags again and Ginny looked away and stepped forward and took them from my hands that were sweaty and hot now.

"I…I'm sorry Harry," Ginny said quietly which was worse than her yelling at me. "I didn't want it to be like this…"

I honestly didn't know how I wanted things to be with her even if I was the one who had asked her out.

I only nodded in recognition and she took a deep breath, her shoulders rising with it and I had to wonder which one of her best friends had suggested this first and I had to wonder which of her "not really friends but I talk to her just to be friendly" did she think I was getting on with this time. I guess it didn't matter now, did it?

"Good bye, Harry," Ginny said and I chose not to be upset at how soft her voice had become.

"Yeah, ok," I managed and couldn't help but think that right now, right now I knew her only thought was how much of a coward I was despite all the things she knows I've done that could never be labeled as cowardice.

And with that she turned around and I watched her open our, _her _blue door and I watched it slam behind her and as I lifted up a green paper bag, my unfeeling fingers grasping the intertwined thread, I turned my head to see the old neighbor two houses down, Margaret something, peering at me while she took an unreasonably amount of time to put her garbage bags in her bin, her gray hair in red curlers.

I sighed, loudly, but it did nothing to stop the conquering stress that was piercing at my brain and body relentlessly but I also knew I had to keep it together, I couldn't afford what happened two months ago to happen again, I knew I wouldn't be able to bear with it this time.

So, as fast as I could because many people down our road were opening their indigo doors to meet the day and its glorious sunshine wondering how long such good weather would last, I began to cram the brown boxes into my car, fumbling and clambering in the back seat embarrassingly to be able to make them fit and then shoving things haphazardly around my trunk to make the rest of the boxes and bags agree with the bantam amount of space. After jumping to get the trunk to shut I grabbed up the last two paper bags and the pet carrier and set them on the front passenger seat.

My heart, I had realized, was hammering urgently against my chest, an invariable reminder that things were going terribly wrong in my life, which I've always known, I've had to live with myself all these years of course, and my weak hands gripped the steering wheel and I took in a few more deep breaths before having one last glance at my used to be home and thinking that the couch inside was a piece of furniture that I had bought, I had bought the telly, the refrigerator, a shelf that I was really fond of but all of it was tearing away from me, that structure.

I pulled out of the parking spot and drove and thought the long minutes in traffic away.

Ginny, she had always been a tough girl, sort of a tomboy in school and I had known her, surprisingly, since I was nine. We had always been good friends; she'd tag along with me and my other friends all the time and I could remember the many times she would cry if she couldn't and hold on to her mother's long flower spotted skirts or knitted jumpers. I could remember all those trips out to the countryside where Ginny's grandparents lived, I could remember running through their golden wheat field, the smell of that fine grain and humid dirt, the sky a blanket of sapphire and the ocean not too far off. We were all best friends, at least, then, I knew that clearly. Though in those days, as a child, I did childish things but in my mind, I knew I was different than them, all of them, of the children on the blacktop playground at school. I was a child but in a sense I wasn't and the reason behind it was inexpressible to the other children.

It's not like I wasn't happy, I was, gradually but the children's home always smelt like a hospital, disinfectant everywhere and the kids there were nowhere near as nice as the kids at school who had parents. I didn't belong because they knew what had happened to me and no married couple wants to start off their family with an eight year old child let alone one who was sexually abused.

Messed up. That's what the kids at the home said, the older ones when they'd hear the rumors from the nurse aids and caretakers because god do women like to gossip about things they have no right to judge but yeah, messed up, that's what they said, that's what they would say when they'd push me around and because I didn't fight back, that, I guess, made me even more messed up.

I'm quiet, I know that, I know that so much inside that it causes me physical pain some days and my therapist says it's natural for people like me, we feel trapped in our own thoughts and we don't have the will to speak them or to mingle much but you know what he also says, because he's really a nice guy, he says those that ignore me miss out on how kind I am. I don't really believe him but that's also normal because he says I'm way too hard on myself, that I have really low self-esteem. I ignore that, like a lot of things…

And Ginny? I can remember the day clearly when I had asked her out, it was a long night, Christmastime, a party I was forced to go to because hey, no one likes a guy who stays home all day in his flat reading, and she did look pretty with her hair waved over her shoulder, long and dark red in the shade of the balcony and her black dress with her back bare so I could see the soft shapes of her shoulder blades, the shadows, almost cautious, that outlined them and the tranquil glimmer the sewn beads on the material of her dress gave off as I felt them underneath my hand that held her waist as we danced all on our own while people got drunk inside and shouted obnoxiously.

She was smiling, probably at my boldness, my courage that from my body would often come out in breathless eruptions of recklessness and I could see, in her topaz eyes, her questions, secret and wandering, why hadn't I done this sooner? In Year 11? Or further back, on her 15th birthday where I gave her expensive perfume and thought that by now I should have kissed someone but only wound up pecking her cheek and Dean Thomas was the one to really snog her that evening on her parents' doorstep. Further back still, when I was 14 and she had taken me into her room, tugging at my wrist and rushed us to hide under the duvet of her bed and I can still remember her whispering, I can still see her sitting across from me in that silence of the day's sunset and the pink torch as it lit up her eyes fiercely and her red lips for she had put on the lipstick that day that belonged to her mum, had snuck in to get it and I can still remember my heart feeling crooked inside my chest and my stomach feeling like it had disappeared, I can remember how I had felt like a ghost under that white blanket, her brown teddy bear with its orange and green plaid ribbon caught under my knee, its black eyes staring up at me quite vaguely and her saying, almost singing, "I don't ever think I've seen eyes like yours, Harry."

And I remember, much too clearly, how it rained that night so suddenly, sounding like the house was surrounded by waterfalls and I had gone to find Hermione, possibly the only girl I've ever thought I've been in love with, and I cried for a reason unbeknownst to me to this day, into her chest while her bushy brown hair smelt of honey and the light from the hallway spilled in through our bodies and her gentle hand swaying up and down over my back, feeling the heat underneath my t-shirt, understanding something far greater that I, at 14, could ever comprehend in that moment but that's the sort of person she is, always has been.

So why did I ask Ginny out and why did I stay with her for two and a half years? Because that's what people like me do; we try to conform to life's simple destinations, the easy outcomes of time and that's what normal people do, they get together, they fall in love, they get married but I'd be lying to myself if I thought I could have gone through with it even if I had gone so far as buying the diamond ring and placing it on her finger after getting on one knee and asking her to marry me, no, I'm not a liar, at least, I couldn't pull off such a big lie like that.

I was never in love with her, I understood that now with the breeze against my face coming through the open car window, it wasn't possible, not from me, not from a person who thought, who believed in intensely that I couldn't ever fall in love, that that very part of my life, that whole chasm had been stolen from me. There wasn't anything I could do to change that or to keep Ginny in love with me for she had been, monumentally so since she first met me.

I know love, I know what people are like when they're in love and I know what it's like to be loved and I knew Ginny's love but it was a love, from the very start, without compassion and you may wonder how that's possible or you may know that it definitely is possible but she was like that, she loved me but in a way that suited her best, in a way that as long as she had me and others didn't that was good enough for her and her self worth. Whether she was aware that I was aware of it, I think she stopped caring and honestly, I think she absolutely hated how much more perceptive I was than her.

It was so bad between us that I would have been glad if she'd cheated on me and I know she hasn't because I notice things too much, too easily, and if I wanted to push the boundaries of that wall Ginny so obviously desired between us I could read her like a book.

Because of my _problems_ she would constantly think I had another girl on the side and she'd question me nonchalantly as if it weren't her own little investigation, using a sweetened voice, serving me tea while she did it and after my truthful statement she'd lose that graceful grip on it all and raise her voice and ask me bluntly about the number in my slacks' pocket that some brunette girl at the local pub had written down daintily and slipped it into my trousers while giving me a flirty grin, leaning down just enough so I'd notice her breasts bunched up together by her purple push-up bra and I had known she was the kind of girl willing to do anything; she had whispered that in my ear as my blurry eyes followed the red polish on her long nails because her hand was rubbing up and down my thigh and I could remember, easily, me telling her, in a slur, that she should respect herself a bit more and her getting prissy with me but still she said to give her a call, text her, whatever but Ginny wouldn't believe me when I told her I hadn't done anything, that I would never do anything because I was with her and only her and I know a lot of men get a bad rep, I myself don't believe any better but not me, I'm the kind of guy who'd never throw around a girl's heart just because I could. I cared about Ginny, right now I care about her but in a sense that I wanted her to keep running up that corporate ladder she was on now, I wanted her to be in good health and I wanted her to find a guy, a normal guy with a simple childhood who preferred dogs like she did, who was taller than her, who could satisfy her in every way there was…

That guy wasn't me and I knew that trying to have something normal didn't make you normal, it didn't make me better and, with losing Ginny that morning I had thought that I had lost my chance at that and I had realized that, even with therapy, I had no idea how I would become _better_.

And I realized, with a sort of sorrow that wrangled in my chest enough that I felt shivery, that I'd be alone tonight, that I would be sleeping somewhere and I wouldn't have her next to me, her legs entangled with mine, that that circling warmth under the blankets wouldn't exist anymore, that her vanilla scent wouldn't attach itself on my clothes in the morning because of her body spray that she put on in vindictive amounts and people in the squad room would comment on how I'd smelt "lovely" that day, I wouldn't get a kiss on the lips when I came home and, like those two months ago when I went on medical leave, she wouldn't wrap her arms around me and tell me that things would be ok.

It wasn't unbearable, with her, not at all. We'd laugh together, like friends did, at the cinema, at the park, at night when she'd curl up against me on the sofa and cry at the same parts of her favorite drama. I'd miss her hand in mine, I'd miss her confidence and brashness, I'd miss her criticisms and fast apologies, I'd miss her pity but I wouldn't miss how she never, ever asked me about it even though she knew, she knew about those three years, she knew and when I would wake up in a cold sweat with my mind wiped clean of whatever nightmare that had pursued it she would pretend to be asleep still and she would never ask me about my sessions, about how I was doing.

She was just scared, I guess, or I know but I just want to guess for her sake. She never liked how much I could figure out what was wrong with her when she came home from work and she had confessed to me how she didn't want to be someone so predictable and I wanted to tell her, to make her understand that love does that to people, real love, and I had known it, years ago when summers to me were carefree and wonderful, when gentle people surrounded me, when I was a part of someone's life so much so that I was everything to them, I know that, I still remember that and maybe because she didn't know what real love was, maybe because she didn't understand that attachment, that abandonment and that stubborn trust, maybe that's why, here, I let her let me go, I accepted it so effortlessly that she wouldn't have to be in my life anymore in that way…

And now here I was, suspended it felt, like a paper airplane in that widened moment where you can't tell if it's going to keep flying or sink to the ground but I knew, without Ginny's hold on me, without her toughness and brutal honesty and that fabrication of a life I really thought I could lead with that naturalness that so many people around me practice with such perfection it's hard not to be jealous, without that I knew I'd sink, plummet but to me, if I have to be truthful to you, I was never one to get that far off the ground to begin with.

* * *

Beginnings are complicated. And I don't mean how life begins, I mean how life _changes_. You hear it all the time of course.

"It was life changing." or "Things will never be the same." or "Earth shattering." "I was transformed." "Miraculous." "Mind blowing." Sentimental shit like that. Everybody gets something like that in their life and if you haven't, get out more.

I can tell you this now, I detest, I _loathe_ lazy people. It's just in my nature, my unsympathetic nature. People who never _do _anything, it just irks me. Let's just get this out there so it's out there: I find it very hard to connect with other people because I don't give a fuck about other people. Did I use to? I don't think so. Is that sad? I don't care, I can't care. Does that mean I don't feel anything? Of course not. But it comes and goes, like the tide, heavy sometimes then nothing at all, like the weight of a whisper. I can't control it, it's just embedded in me like beaten iron, hard and cut up.

Life is different for everyone; it does different things to people, our world of diverse people. It's full, it gets warm and it gets cold and some of us have shelter to run to and some of us get tossed and twisted in the waking, mutinous storms that pass by. I understand that, I see it but I can't feel it most days.

Even though I don't care about people I find it very hard to not _study _people. It's a knack I have that won't shut off. I suppose it makes my job easier. I pay attention; that is all. That's what people do in my line of work; we're tested on this material for a good four years before we purposely attempt to solve a crime.

Yes, I am a detective. I have been one officially for five years. Now you may wonder does being a detective, a huntsman of truth and a guardian of _justice_ mean I have to care about people? Not in the slightest, which is good for people like me. And, that said, I've faired quite well so far. I'm 30 years old and I don't just get by to get by, I drift and occasionally I enjoy myself.

Now you can ask did my job construct me into this callous, heartless man? Don't be dramatic. If you want this job you should know you're bound to see horror.

I can be cruel to people and I guess some piece of me finds amusement from it but that won't turn off either. You may think I'm just choosing to be this way and in a sense, maybe I do, maybe it's comfortable here or perhaps these constant hooks and thorns in my side haven't found the right hands to pull them out.

Things don't matter to me. I drift, like dust-motes in front a window brazen with sunlight, I'm just here, I keep living and if you ask my unsympathetic self why I will always tell you that "I don't know."

Sod it.

And you can say things don't always stay the same.

And I can say when do you stop being the same person you always were?

Beginnings are strange because you never know when something is beginning until you look back on it and realize it was there, in that certain moment, all by itself in cramped minutes where you were much too busy to understand that anything special was occurring; that there, right there, was where it began and you'd always know, no matter what, that that beginning would remain there, unchanged forever.

Why are beginnings important? Why do they mean something? When life changes? It just depends on who they matter to, I suppose. Everyone has their own beginnings, everyone has their own stories to tell and where does a story start?

From the beginning.

But what I would like to say now before I forget, before you know things about me that everyone knows, things that are cruel and ugly and crass and rough and unkind, before you realize "mercy" or "charity" aren't words you would associate with me, before you meet me in this story, I want you to know this:

He wore me down.

Now, like I've said, most of us are never aware of it, the start, it comes so swiftly between us, invisible almost but we might feel it, maybe a buzzing in your ear or a flick of an impulse in your hand, your heart gives a jerk, you breathe a little deeper, a weak pinch between your ribs, a tensing in your neck, a second that stretches on just a bit longer than the others.

And what happens after is all up to you, still, while the world plays in the mastering works of ideas and fates and times all scrambled in the shadows of midnight where you've gone to rest, you're sleeping, you're dreaming, and others are awake and thinking and understanding things far more than you ever could. Where do you have to be? I ask myself that sometimes when I can't feel anything at all. Is this the life you wanted to live? Or did you get sidetracked somewhere down that road? Who shoved you aside? Who's waiting for you? Who are you waiting for?

Time goes on. But life? Does it for everyone? Sometimes, you get stuck somewhere like an ant with a rock or blade of grass that came falling down between their marching line. You get confused. You get lost. You get desperate. You feel small. You get angry or you feel numb. Is it just me?

And I can ask myself, right here before it begins when I look back: Was it my fault? Could I not control myself if I wanted to? Or did it carry me away like a dream where you're trying to run as fast as you can but your legs feel dead and that torturing eagerness lives inside your body, so encaged and shaking and vicious to rip things apart…Or did I think that this time, _this time _I could make everything right again or did I ever know if things could ever be right for me at all?

It was a Monday, July 11th around ten in the morning and the sun was excitingly bright over the city. I work at the Belgravia Police Station in London which is a part of the Westminster borough. It's a rather large arrangement of pale red brick buildings, set in a busy junction on Buckingham Palace Road. Above the first floor it's all stuffy office rooms, white painted walls, lined dusty windows regularly cracked open because the air conditioning gives up a lot and with too many bodies moving around colliding with other bodies, I hear a lot of swearing.

My desk is at the back of the squad room where Homicide and Serious Crime Command is situated along with our resource teams on the highest floor. Steel cabinets line the walls, large color coordinated folders are stacked up everywhere, desks are cluttered with files and little trinkets and picture frames to remind people that there is a world outside of this mayhem. The noise around all of us becomes quite benign. We all work in this sort of habitual balanced state and whenever someone opens the door too loudly you're sure to get a good number of heads popping up to recognize what foreign body has entered our bland territory. Usually it's a uniform or admin from downstairs needing to speak to a detective or the chief inspector.

Otherwise it's a regular hum of computers running, typing fingers, pens scribbling, people coming and going like spirits passing through walls, soundless and polite. Sometimes there's hardly anyone present, desks are empty, monitors shut off, and all you can really hear is the puttering air conditioning and the traffic flow outside. When it is busy, mostly at the end of the workday when the night shifters arrive and the day shifters are hustling to get faxes sent off or crime reports photocopied correctly this time around and whispering invites to pubs or dinner or the superintendent is giving someone an earful, things get demanding and people get irritable.

I usually escape unnoticed before everyone so no one gets to speak with me or question me into doing extra work though everyone seems to be getting the hint that I'm an expert recluse and that I enjoy enlightening others on what pinpoint ways they could improve their lives.

So I usually sit here, alone with my cold demeanor, waiting, which we all get used to. The station could use a new paint job because the eggshell white and yellow florescent lights tend to do a fine job at giving me a head ache at the end of the day when I've been going over statement after statement about a girl who was killed in a mob at a nightclub where I suppose a whole stampede of teenage wankers were too piss drunk to know they were trampling over her and a few others lucky enough to get up with only minor injuries and it comes to me as an extreme challenge not to harm witnesses who think they are above authority even though a girl has died and they sit, steaming in their idiocy and arrogance looking so smug as if I should be the one to kiss the ground they strut on that I want to take their fake silver chains from their necks and strangulate every morsel and drop of it till they're nothing but a mass of leaking flesh but only, _only _on those days where I actually have that energy to feel and it's easy enough to calm myself down and push my endeavors so that I'm not giving the boy's mother a clear expression that lets her know "Yes, yes it is your fault he turned out this way."

That was last month however and this month, my second month here adjusting (but not entirely) to this station after transferring from Camden, I was beginning to notice that here people operated like a genuine team, as if this station was almost homely to them and, if you studied us, you could tell we were a group of odd people.

My name is Severus Snape (my mother fancies ancient Roman history and I only hold a tad bit of a grudge towards her) and there are a lot of peculiar names here. For instance our chief superintendent's name is Kingsley Shacklebolt and we have a chief inspector by the name of Alastor Moody.

And, there's a bloke here, a young man but I don't know if it's right to say that because if I were to ask anyone who didn't know him I could wager that they wouldn't be able to guess he was old enough to be considered a "man".

Harry Potter. That's his name. And I hated him.

Yes, that's correct. I hate him even though I haven't said so much as one word to him the whole month; I don't think we've even made eye contact. But that doesn't mean I'm not aware of the type of person he is. Potter's a real space cadet. That's accurate enough under my observations of him from across the room.

His desk is all by itself near the door and cordoned with cabinets and a printer. All he has on his desk besides his monitor is one of those tiny Zen sand gardens fit with a little rake and some rocks and a small potted cactus. He's bloody short, no more than five foot five and scrawny enough his ribs are probably visible in the buff. I've noticed he wears these classic round eyeglasses with that zylo material but only to read and isn't abashed at all when he puts them on.

And he's a cat lover. I know this because I've witnessed him spending his breaks watching cat videos online with this dopey grin on his face, his eyes blaring with delight. If that isn't bad enough he has a tea mug shaped like a cat. No, he's no man to me and if you say these aren't good enough reasons to hate someone for, these aren't the reasons. These fluffy little details only serve to make me shudder and feel pathetic _for_ him. I inwardly cringe all the time, I do.

But I hate him because he is, indisputably, an absolute pushover. It's as if he has no backbone whatsoever because his spine has been walked all over, crushed. I've seen it, every day, people asking him to get them coffee or tea, one after the other and what does he say to them? "How many sugars?" "Do you want milk?"; he's the guy to get everyone's lunch order and come back weighed down with take away boxes, I've seen them surround him in the break room next door and tell dirty jokes that he doesn't get but pretends to. It's not everyone here that does it but I've seen these men, who are much taller and much stronger, tear him to pieces behind his back as they take a loo break and meanwhile he's up here watching his cat videos, outstandingly oblivious. Innocent. They prod at him in ways that he thinks their being pleasant, conversational, interesting, but in reality they're demasculinizing him more so than he already does all on his own.

He just takes it and that annoys me to no end and further still it annoys me that he's fucking here, that he somehow has gotten this far being this way, that he passed the mounds of testing, that the higher ups accepted this kind of character, a sucker, that he _actually _is a murder detective who, by ear, I've gotten the just of the number of cases he's solved and how and it is very hard to believe what they say after what I've seen here in this room instead of out there in the criminal effervescence; I can't see, physically, this _boy _schlepping through that slaughter and grime and putrid disgust of human nature, of their greed and aggression and sadism and rape and engorged cruelty and feral insanity all the while dissecting the spindled and twined truth that can be so caked with secrets that these _monsters_ keep, things that I will admit kept me up at night despite my unfeeling bones; I don't understand how he can understand it, how he can _digest _that.

But he is a detective and he is here marking his path to that truth and he lets these men play him like a fool.

And I won't pity that; I can't pity that because I know why these men do it. They're jealous. The reasoning is transparent. These blokes think they're being so covert in their manners towards Potter but I, from back here, can laugh quietly in my head at their masked desperation and lack of confidence and the ways in which they attempt to compensate for it.

Because not many men respond to another man's kindness unless they're a homosexual.

But women do and how they come to him, every day, in little throngs, one after another to say a cheery hello. Most of them don't flirt or rather they do their best not to flirt, instead they're casual about it, friendly, feeding off of his modesty and timid body language. They can't help it, I know they can't because he's the _nice guy_, the good lad, and did I mention he has a model face? Yes, the sort that you see on the cover of magazines, photo-shopped and all and I'm being quite sincere no matter if he doesn't look his age. Despite his bubbleheaded illustration, his obsession with fuzzy felines and his patsy self I think whatever cosmic force felt sorry for all that and made up for it by providing him with good looks.

That doesn't mean anything coming from me, I'm just pointing out what is irrefutably evident.

I hate him, I do, heavily and thoroughly and bitterly. Perhaps I believed, here, that people like us couldn't be as kind as him. And that is the reason, at the top of this list, that I hated him.

Today however, Potter is different, he's not smiling at all but sitting at his desk looking as if he was drowning in misery but it did look like, considering the pet carrier that was on the table, he had brought a cat to work with him.

I turned myself in my swivel chair to face Haggerty, John Haggerty, light skinned, my height but thinner, 27, dirty blond hair cut short and neat, pale blue eyes, smiles a lot to not come off as insecure, likes to collect coins (I know this only because he has told me and keeps a box of them in his desk) and today he forgot to shave and was late.

His desk is only a foot away from mine, separated by a filing cabinet. He was playing solitaire on his computer, his expression set in a gentle concentration, his clothes much like every other plain clothes here; his dress shirt was gray, his tie silver with blue embroidered stripes and his slacks were a khaki color.

"Haggerty," I called in a hiss of a whisper. No response, his eyes generating ardent frustration because he'd been on this round for 20 minutes already. Haggerty likes puzzles but that doesn't mean he's any good at them.

"_Haggerty,_" I called with a rougher whisper this time.

Haggerty at last shifted his eyes to connect with my stare.

"What?" he said lightly, leaning back in his desk chair.

"Tell me something, would you? What is it with Potter?" I asked candidly and leaned over the filing cabinet, resting my chin on my fist.

"What? What do you mean?" Haggerty muttered as he went on to restart the round for the fourth time now.

"Don't waste my time, Haggerty," I said briskly. "Answer my question."

Haggerty gave me a look and then twisted his chair to face me.

"Why do you want to know about Potter?" Haggerty said. He has a leveled voice, proper and too soft for how he appears to people.

"Doesn't everyone else know about him? I don't want to be left out," I said just to see Haggerty's perplexed expression etch on to his features.

"What? He's a good detective," he answered. "Brave. Just does his job."

I eyed him almost intently. Haggerty isn't a part of the hounds that badger Potter. Why? I wasn't really sure, I only know that sometimes Potter passes his desk on the way back from the water cooler to simply say hello and Haggerty, just as simply, replies: "Hey Potter, you alright?" and Potter nods, smiles, and does his best to avoid the computer wires on the floor or to not knock into cabinets. Did I forget to mention that he's hopelessly clumsy? Yes, he is and it boggles my belief ever more still in his skills as a detective.

"Braver than you?" I said.

"I don't mean it like that," Haggerty responded more casually than I thought he would. "He's…a bit like a dare devil, goes above and beyond when he has to…"

"You mean he's reckless?" I said quietly. My eyes narrowed as Haggerty looked off toward Potter.

"I don't know…yeah, I suppose…" he said and raised an eyebrow. "I'm surprised he hasn't gotten himself killed actually…"

Now I've never had any real acquaintance with Potter but I've heard his surname go around at the station I was at before my transfer and I did hear that there was a young detective constable back in March that had chased a man, a father who was being arrested for the murder of his six year old son, without the help of his fellow officers because when police had pinned him he ran and Potter went after him, unarmed, while their man was and Potter was shot at, three shots, every bullet missed him and I didn't understand the part where Potter managed to tackle this six foot tall construction worker and subdue him long enough until backup arrived. Maybe it had all been hearsay and I didn't care to watch the news that night.

"But he was gone for a month, wasn't he?" I said, taking my turn to be casual. "Why?"

Haggerty looked over at the sulking man-boy who was scrolling over whatever webpage with those round eyeglasses on now.

"He blew up during an interrogation," he said dully. "Got physical with the suspect."

"Potter did?"

"Yeah," Haggerty carried on. "The guy murdered his wife and two year old baby girl. He kept denying it and denying it and then, after Potter digs into him a little more, he confesses, happily, and he just keeps talking, saying how he did it and how much he enjoyed it…sick fuck…He was really trying to rile Potter. The bloke knew he was caught, enough evidence to put him away for life and he was laughing, a genuine psychopath…"

"So why did Potter snap?" I asked.

"The guy wouldn't tell him where he buried the baby," Haggerty reclined in his seat and folded his arms across his chest. "I think he just took this one case too much to heart, cared more than he should have…let that bastard get to him and if that wasn't enough the guy makes a pass at Potter after," he lowered his eyebrows, titling his head, trying to work his face into indifference. "Told him he had a pretty face…I mean, _Christ_…You should have seen the way he was looking at Potter…like he actually _meant_ it. It was a while before everyone stopped talking about it."

I wasn't fazed at all because I've seen and heard it all before.

"They allowed him medical leave?"

Why did I want to know? Because I study people and when I study Potter and the way others treat him I can't believe that he's oblivious to it all and yes, this world is full of pushovers, weak people who never stand up for a shred of their own dignity and whatever shred of me needed to know what was Potter's _excuse _for going on with all; I just couldn't put it down like everything else.

"Yeah, a month off," Haggerty answered.

"Why did they authorize that? What's he had in the past?"

And Haggerty's eyes changed, the indifference metamorphosing to something much more sobering and he looked away just as Kingsley called out my name from his office.

"Snape! A word," he caught my line of sight and I inwardly sighed.

How do I describe Kingsley to you? He comes off as terrifying if you've never met him before despite his 40 year old life and tired brown eyes. I assume it's the baldness that does it and the fact that he's five centimeters taller than me when I stand exactly at 188. He's dark skinned; I believe his parents are from Grenada, something like that. His suits are always gray or black and bright colored ties please him and he's always overbearing.

He's been filling in for our chief inspector who's on a brief leave of absence to, as I've heard it, save his marriage. Kingsley's the borough commander of Westminister and adores order and making sure everyone knows that and no one I've crossed denies his short temper.

By the look of the man I could already sense he was in a bad disposition that was steadily getting worse. His eyes were bloodshot and he had a red handkerchief in his hand as he was standing outside the office.

"Potter's brought a damn cat in here," Kingsley growled, shaking his head and sneezing as he turned to walk back into the office. "Shut the door."

I did so and stood in front of the wide wooden desk while Kingsley was clicking away at the computer, the jumbo screen casting a glare of light into his angry, watery eyes.

"I'm bloody _allergic_ to cats," he let out. "I can't stand them."

I stayed silent.

"I'm going to pair you up with Potter," Kingsley said as he was typing and not looking at me.

"I beg your pardon, sir?" I said.

"You'll be partners with Potter," he said and grabbed up a pen to scribble something down on a pad of paper. On his desk his mobile was buzzing away without him noticing. "The allotted time is indefinite at the moment…"

"I don't understand, sir, I'm not a novice and neither is Potter," I said and tried not to sound too defensive but the idea, the very brief idea of Potter being anywhere near me for more than five seconds was irritating my self-composure already and combusting my desire to remain in the background at this station to nothing but dull cinders.

"Are you trying to disregard my orders, Snape?"

"No," I breathed and put my hands in my pockets. "I'm just…waiting for your reasoning behind this..._request._"

Kingsley sneezed again into his handkerchief.

"It's what is best for him," he said. "He may be a good detective, better than most I've worked with back in my years but he needs…guidance."

"You mean someone to make sure he doesn't have a meltdown again," I replied sullenly, using my newly acquired knowledge. "I'm not here to hold anyone's hand, if you think he can't hack it anymore then let the boy go before he puts himself or others in danger."

"He's not a boy," Kingsley said, ignoring my insolence. "And I will not, like so many others who held my place, disregard him for one error…We look after our own."

_Of course we do until one of us jumps off a bridge or meets a speeding train, then we'll all say we never noticed anything out of the ordinary, we'll say we couldn't believe they'd do such a thing…_

My thoughts were grim for a reason because I've known three people in my life who've committed suicide but did I believe Potter capable? For some reason I didn't and I didn't know what that reason was.

I held Kingsley's stare, almost glaring at him.

"He is a _good_ detective," he emphasized. "Just ignore his quirks and you two will get on fine."

Quirks? Is that what I thought they were? Is that what everyone else thought?

I still didn't want Potter as my partner no matter what but there wasn't much I could do on the matter.

"Why me, sir? Why not someone whose worked with Potter in the past?" I said evenly, not ready to give in. "Like Haggerty? Someone he knows…"

"Snape, with all these budget cuts our recourses are more limited than ever," Kingsley said. "And considering the reason why you were transferred here you could do to hone your people skills."

I refrained from rolling my eyes. Kingsley ripped the piece of paper from the pad and handed it to me.

"Don't act like its torture," he said directly as I took the paper from him. "Now get Potter in here. We got a body in a flat, an old woman; the pathologist isn't sure if it was accidental or suspicious, address is on that. Take one of your cars; we have two in the shop already. Uniforms are there…oh and watch out for the RSPCA."

"Why are they there?" I asked.

Kingsley sneezed again and cursed.

"She had a lot of cats," he retorted irately after using his handkerchief.

_Wonderful_, _Potter will love it, _I thought dryly and I left the small office and forced my legs to take me over to Potter's desk. Standing behind him I could see what he was doing on the web which appeared to be a site listing available flat rentals. He was lost in concentration; a couple printed sheets of the same website lay by his keyboard. He really did seem like a boy who had just finished Year 11 to me. He had short dark brown hair that looked faintly ruffled, a clean shaven face…

"Potter," I called.

He jumped in his chair, startled, his hands rising off the keyboard and mouse and turned swiftly around to face me.

And behind those circular frames were eyes unlike any I had seen before and I will admit they took me off guard because I realized I had never noticed them before, I never looked up from my desk when Potter was near it and I never got close to him intentionally, never really stared at his face and this was the closest we'd ever been.

They were bright, that's all I knew at first, like nature rapt in sunbeams. They were big, like a child's. But it was the color that did it, a vibrant color that shouted at me intensely, maple green so flourished it didn't seem real.

And they were staring up at me and for a flicker of a second, like reflections swooping by windows, I couldn't form the words, the reason I was standing before him with my hands in my pockets, and, so sudden that it made me feel that sensation as if I were falling, I had forgotten the entire reason I was even here in this room, my past, my _life_, who I was as if I were just an empty vessel, a body moving in the background of a film set, nameless and wandering about…

"Shacklebolt wants you in his office," the words came out so flawlessly, simple and toneless.

Potter's eyes glanced over at Kingsley and he only gave me a nod before standing up and going into the room. I followed slowly and lingered outside the door, leaning on the glass wall, annoyed that I now had to wait on someone before I did my job.

"Tell me, Potter, why is there a cat in here?" Kingsley's voice was slightly brusque. He had a pile of files before him.

"Uh…well I…It was sort of an emergency…What happened was—"

"Never mind," the chief superintendent said.

I could tell that Potter was flustered, patches of heat appearing quickly in his cheeks. He had good posture which was odd to me because for some reason I expected slouching shoulders or his head to be regularly forced down but it wasn't so though he did look fairly anomalous in smart clothes. He wore a blue-gray dress shirt tucked into dark charcoal colored trousers and a simple black belt around the waist. All I could think, as I noticed his necktie matched his trousers, were that if his feet weren't coordinated at least his attire was however his boulder-gray suede bucks made me ask myself if Potter liked to spend a lot of money on himself. I really needed to stop critiquing his shoes…

"Uniforms called in a body, a senior citizen, less than an hour ago in a residential flat, they say one of the tenants found her and the pathologist can't determine if it was accidental or suspicious," Kingsley explained as he stood up, picked up the files and rounded his desk. "I'll be partnering you up with Snape here, go with him, he's got the address."

And I swore I heard Potter mumble:

"No…don't…please…"

"And put that bloody cat somewhere else before you leave!" the man called before exiting the squad room.

Potter didn't move from his spot as his head _was_ down now and I couldn't help but smirk because here we both were, put in a position neither of us wanted to be in and for a moment, as Potter stood there and I knew we had a dead body to see, I wondered how spoilt the boy had been growing up but a part of me snuck up and pictured those eyes, distinctive and awake; had they looked lost for just a second?

I watched as Potter left the office and hurried to his desk. He picked up the cat carrier and slowly left the squad room. Just as I was about to leave I heard someone, I think his last name was Williams, make a remark to his colleague across his desk:

"Hey mate, did you see Potter's pussy?" And then they laughed like school boys.

I slammed the door open knowing everyone would be momentarily miffed at the harsh noise it made. I was angry because of course I was the sort of person to think my ideals were superior to everyone else's and that came off as just being plain bitter but did that bother me? No. It was just being forced to remain around Potter that I knew would drive me up a wall. It's not as if I care to fix people and when I'm bored, which is common for me, I judge people to pass the time. That's ignorant, I know but it's as close as I can get to actually feeling anything and I _knew, _beyond any shadow of a doubt, that having to be in the _boy's _presence was going to make it very difficult to be civil toward him.

I could sense that a very destructive path was assembling itself in front of me and there was nothing I could do but walk on it.

And those eyes, I couldn't stop picturing them as if they weren't human but they most certainly were. Had they really looked lost? I don't think that was it.

They had looked sad.

Beginnings are quiet and for me it had all begun, like many things do, with that one rushing look.

* * *

Why were Mondays so horrible? I think a lot of people ask that question but in my case I just think every day sort of transpires itself to be horrible and that's depressing, I get that, try to be more optimistic would probably be what people would tell me if I actually talked to people around the squad room but I don't, I just sort of listen and reflect, like a recorder, what they tell me or nod and agree. Why? Because I try not to be an awkward guy but I don't know how to be normal, like everyone here, everyone who has the same things to complain about, the same expressions to make, the same things to find enjoyable and that simplicity of it all that I could never grasp onto long enough to feel it and what made it truly worse was that everyone could see it, like a monkey performing tricks to attract people's awe except no one was in awe of me, they just knew all of my secrets while I just tried to pretend they didn't exist…

I'm not saying I don't know how to be human and I can't explain to you why some people are introverts and some people are extroverts and it's not that I don't like people because I do; everyone has a story to tell, everyone has problems and terrible things have happened to them but not everyone can turn out ok after everything, not everyone can just adapt to society and act like it never happened. I'm not a good actor and sometimes the people that surround me aren't good actors either.

And I don't want pity from anyone, I hate that and I'm just one person out of seven billion or so people and there are others like me, I've never met any of them, but there are and sometimes I wonder what their lives are like, how did they fair? I was an ok child, I got along with people because at that age children don't see evil like adults do, they think that when a bad man does something the good man helps and saves the day and as I got older I realized just as much as they did how different I was and I tried to act natural, just like the monsters who do those things to children, I tried to blend in and really believe that what happened to me didn't define who I was or who I would grow up to be, that it didn't mean everything in my path was destined to be ruined and nothing more but it didn't work out like that, my body just didn't know how to live like that because I knew the truth and I knew just as much that loneliness could kill people but I still worked to carve out a life I could live, that I could manage and manufacture without all those necessities as long as I never had to ask for help, as long as I had that, I could survive.

So I finished school, I did my testing and training to become a police officer, for two years I did whatever I had to do as a police officer even if it meant long hours of nightly patrols to stop teenagers from breaking into cars or houses or garden sheds or shops, even if it meant dealing with civilians telling me how much we were failing at our duty to protect our city, being called a filthy pig, breaking up public disputes, pub brawls, it didn't matter because I knew I'd be a detective after it all, I knew it would pay off.

And people might say why do you want to see all the evil things there are in the world? Why do you want to be the good man that fights the bad man? Is it because of what happened to me? Not really. I don't ever think about revenge. Honestly, I think I became a detective to do something with my life that I could consider good enough…

But today, at 24 years old and only a handful of days away from being 25, I was doubting everything as I walked the few flights of stairs down to where my best friend, Hermione Granger, works. Her department is Child Abuse Investigation Command (SCD5) and she basically deals with any crime involving a minor, even murder and makes sure social services are doing their job correctly. She's always busy but if you ask her how she feels about her job she'll definitely tell you it's fulfilling. Hermione's good at what she does but I had always thought she would have become a prosecutor or a doctor or a dentist, like her parents were; something to do with a lot of studying or human rights because Hermione is sort of an activist and she absolutely lives in books.

I don't know how to describe Hermione to you. At one point I thought she was my soul mate (I was 16) because we always know what the other is thinking or feeling and we know how to make each other's days much better than they had been. She's always been there for me, a constant rock to hit me with if my head needs to be leveled, a warm smile when I needed courage to keep my life together even if it was nearly at that point where it could fall to pieces. She's full of advice; she's clever, smart, kind, generous; it goes on forever. But she's just been that one person that understood everything without me having to explain it to her and I've always been grateful for that. I've never felt ashamed in front of her.

And right now I wondered if she'd be able to tell just how bad things were getting. The reason for me going to see her was that I needed to drop off Hedwig for a while so I could go to an assignment. I had thought I would have spent today trying to get the task of finding a flat to rent over with and that would be it. I had no idea that our chief superintendent planned to partner me up with another detective.

I didn't know him but my first impression was that I had never seen someone give off such an ominous presence before. It had made a chill run up my spine. He was tall, slender and quite pale, a strong jaw and I guessed his age was in his late twenties. He wore almost all black except for his dark gray dress shirt. His hair was even black, somewhat waved and while most of the men who worked here kept theirs cut short his hair sat just on his shoulders; it was even layered. He spoke with a unique sort of voice, the timbre low and deep, quite intimidating actually which was odd but I had never heard anyone sound like that before. And his surname was Snape.

He didn't know me either but I had this feeling that he hated me, like really hated me which didn't make the prospect of working with him for who knows how long any less bleak.

I'm normally good at reading people and pretending like I don't notice they dislike me but with this guy, to me, he just didn't seem to look at anyone or talk to anyone, he felt like a shadow in the squad room, looming and faceless. I've glanced at him before, at his desk that's in the far corner and sunlight didn't really seem to suit him at all. He reminded me of rain, of storm clouds, of funerals and the kind of person that liked bringing people bad news. He was blank to me, really, besides looking annoyed. I had no idea if we'd get on.

When Kingsley told me that Snape would be my partner I panicked. I couldn't really think straight knowing that and with the clear reality of Ginny throwing me out sinking in, my chest hurt from the anxiety of it all but I kept telling myself to breathe.

I couldn't place why I was stunned because detectives work with multiple people all the time and it's never just one man on the case; we have a number of different people for different things but it isn't common for experienced detectives, and I would like to think that I was experienced even with only three years as a fully fledged detective for SCD1, to be given a partner.

I didn't need to rely on anyone, I kept repeating that to myself and I didn't care what kind of man Snape was I wasn't going to need him to get my job done and to get it done right but I guess losing your temper, or going mental, on a guilty suspect didn't really help prove that and its exactly what landed me with a month of medical leave when I was sure they'd transfer me somewhere else, somewhere more sensitive, like traffic…

I couldn't fight it and I realized that accepting Snape as my partner was the only way I could keep my job as a detective so I had to deal with it somehow.

I stopped in front of Hermione's department which is made up of multiple offices but her desk is the one right when you walk in and she was sitting there, her eyes moving back and forth between a form and her computer screen. Her desk was piled with blue binder folders and a stack of files with little colorful label tags sticking out every which way. Hermione's fingers were a blur over her keyboard. Some days I miss her bushy brown hair but she was a 25 year old woman now, had discovered hair products and makeup though she used both modestly but she's always had a pretty face, fair skin, petal colored lips and thoughtful light brown eyes.

Her soft brown hair was down, slightly curled and her high cheek bones were brushed tastefully with rouge but the offices down here were frequently busy, the workload immense, phones constantly ringing and people going back and forth in a frenzy. It's difficult to deal with children and when we get those calls that a child has died, well, there are days where this floor looks so grim as if the walls were even in mourning. We've worked on cases together before, me and Hermione. It's usually when a boy or girl is murdered and the father or mother tries to go on the run and I've helped her with a case she had where the father, who had had his visitation rights revoked, had kidnapped his daughter and the mother had come in, completely barmy, and begged Hermione almost on her knees to help her.

They say it's out of love that a parent tries to stay in their child's life when they don't deserve that title but all I can see is them trying to resurrect themselves from the failure they've sunk in without any concern for the child's well being and when a child dies because of abuse Hermione always sits down next to me and her voice only ever gets barely above a whisper. It's just something she does, as if saying their name helps her know that they know she really did care even if she felt she hadn't done enough.

Despite her vast intelligence, I've always thought her heart was much bigger.

She was dressed in a navy pencil skirt, short black heels and a pearl colored blouse with a navy Peter Pan collar. It still surprises me that she has remained single for so long.

"Hermione," I whispered as I shut the door carefully behind me.

She looked up and smiled at me but it wasn't one of those happy smiles that I look forward to, it was sympathetic which meant she knew something I hadn't told her yet.

"Harry," she said benevolently.

"Hey, I was wondering if you could watch Hedwig for me for a few hours, I have to go right now," I said as I placed the pet carrier on her desk trying to mind the paperwork.

"Harry, I saw your car and all your things inside," Hermione said. "I didn't think Ginny would do something like that—"

"Who told you?" I asked, my expression sheepish.

"She did, she texted me a half an hour ago," Hermione said. "Harry, I think it really is for the best. You've been telling me how things are and—"

"Can we talk about it later? I really have to go—I've been given a partner."

"Is it bad?" Hermione whispered.

I'm not exactly allowed to talk about cases outside the department though if it was something grave the news would be all over it and secrecy wouldn't matter after that.

"No, it's not," I responded hesitantly. "I think this is the only way they'll let me keep my job."

And Hermione gave me a look of deep consideration and laced her fingers together on the shined metal desk. Her dark eyelashes fluttered as she looked at the message board set up on the wall on my right and then back to me.

"I'm sorry Harry," she said quietly. "You can stay with me or Ron—"

"No, I'll just get a hotel for a little while, it's fine," I interrupted quickly and I knew she wouldn't argue my decision. That's how it is with me if you know me, you can suggest something once and if I refuse it the first time it's no use pushing the invitation any further.

"Call me later then," Hermione said evenly.

"Yeah," I said and I leant down a bit to see Hedwig and I could tell she was angry with me for keeping her in the carrier for so long. She's a four year old domestic cat, snow white with blotches of black like ink and large yellow eyes. She meowed and I said goodbye to her. "She's got water in there and some treats and if you can take her out on the courtyard whenever…"

"Ok, I'll see you later," Hermione said and gave me a small smile.

"I'm fine," I told her before turning around and rushing out into the corridor.

I don't want you to think of me as some uptight kind of guy who needs to worry less and relax, to calm down. I've known happiness and there are plenty of times where I can let myself laugh until I can't breathe and I've got an album full of the good times I've had in my life, lighthearted moments where some days I wish I could drop right into that time in that photograph and live it over but things happen when you get older, you begin to realize things that you want to do and for me, all of the things I want to do I can't.

My therapist says not to blame myself, none of it was my fault but all I can think when he says that is why can't I be better, why can't this life that was saved no matter what the reason, why can't I make it something that's normal? Stable? I want to find that warmth I felt so long ago even if that memory is aged, the colors faded like old clothes, the dye washed out, sun stained and ragged but I can feel what had been in my heart then, a candlelight burning, an icicle melting, time I didn't know was running out. How could I have known?

I couldn't calm down; I wasn't fine because I was scarred inside and out and no matter who I was or who I tried to be in these crowds of perfect people I knew I was a fraud. Like I said, I've never met anyone like me, who's been through it and who was saved and maybe I was too afraid to meet them, whether they were getting on better than I was or were doing so much worse, I don't know. I've read stories, articles, everything, the good and the bad, and I guess I could be grateful I was good enough to be able to walk outside and to have a car and a job and friends and an education and most of all a chance.

But there's this fear inside of me, it's been there for as long as I can remember, that one day I won't be able to keep trying, I won't be able to hold myself together and understand my own mind, that I won't be able to keep going and that I'll lose myself or worse, that I won't recognize myself.

* * *

I like things clean, especially my car. Even though I strive, halfheartedly, to not care for consumerism I can't help but desire a few finer things in life. I mean, I'm only going to live it once so why not? I prefer things to be organized and sanitary and yes, Potter did seem to be well _groomed_ but I normally don't have other men in my car if I can avoid it.

Potter drives a gray Honda, fairly new and it was parked down the street from my car. As I walked past it I saw that it was crammed with boxes and bags of things I could easily guess were Potter's belongings. Through the windows I spotted a shopping bag full of books, another packed with clothes, and an open box with what looked like half a guitar case sticking out of it. Potter didn't seem the type to play the guitar. The sight of it was peculiar but Potter was moving considering the site he was looking over and it didn't concern me but there was no way I was getting in with all of that.

After ten minutes of waiting by my car I saw him walking out of the back of the station onto the sidewalk. His eyeglasses were off and the cat, thankfully, was gone. I knew Potter had friends at the station; actual people that were well acquainted with him, two people to be exact: A young woman from another department who always visited Potter and a ginger haired man, a constable, most likely Potter's age. They would sometimes go out at lunch breaks if their schedules coincided. At least the man boy wasn't entirely hopeless with people.

Potter squinted at the glare of my car. He still looked as pale as he did in Kingsley's office.

"You drive a Jaguar," Potter commented as he stopped before me and once again, especially now in the day's plentiful sunlight, those green eyes displayed such intense light; a grass field captured in summer's glow. Christ.

"This year's XJ…it's a nice car," Potter commented again as his eyes traveled over the vehicle.

"You know about cars?" I asked simply, oblivious to the fact that we were wasting time.

"Not at all," Potter responded, giving me a nervous smile. I had caught the brief pause in his features, the miniscule thought that perhaps he should just lie but it deflated so easily it was amusing. "I saw it in a magazine…"

I stepped off the curb, unlocked the car and opened the driver's door, my arm leaning over it as I held my keys. Potter didn't move as he was still looking at the car.

"The door handle's right there," I said.

"Oh…sorry," Potter muttered and opened the passenger door.

We got in and I put on my belt and started the car and tried to get used the visual of Potter in the passenger seat. I entered the address in the navigation as Potter was figuring out his seatbelt and looking around at the interior.

"Do you want to listen to the radio?" Potter asked as his right hand was hovering over the center stack.

"Don't touch anything," I said tonelessly as I drove out onto the street with ease.

"O—k," Potter said and placed his hands on his thighs.

It was silent for the next few moments besides the clicking of my blinker as we were stopped at a red light. The awkwardness of it was thick in the car and the sound of Potter putting his window down almost made me flinch. I raised the window back up and Potter glanced at me briefly before looking forward again.

"Your eyes are dark brown," Potter remarked quietly.

"Yes," I said after a wide gap of silence.

"They look black sometimes…you know."

I turned my head to face him and Potter was staring out the passenger window and I could tell he wasn't looking at anything. We drove in complete silence after that.

* * *

It was a group of flats that took up the whole street of Maida Vale, eight floors high, large windows all curtained up tackily and lined by redbrick. As I drove down the street I could see one patrol vehicle, the ambulance and a forensic van parked along the curved driveway in front of the specific building that the body was found. Two uniforms standing before the line of blue tape were chatting away their boredom.

There were a few onlookers here and there and the traffic on the street moved dismally and all I could think that it was just someone's grandmother we were about to see and nothing like that could be interesting. I couldn't exactly focus on what possible way she could have died as I took notice of the RSPCA van and people in white coveralls and masks stepping into it with a cage of what looked to be at least six cats inside and another cage with at least six more. I asked myself how come no one in the complex filed a complaint against the tenant because surely it had to have smelled dreadful, surely there were certain pet regulations put in place.

I sighed as I parked the car and I could see that Potter was looking around at the cluster of vehicles and who was doing what. If this were a crime scene then there would be a lot more uniforms hurrying about but as for now it was simply a dead old woman. How the pathologist couldn't make up their mind about the cause of death I hadn't the foggiest yet.

I got out of the car quickly and Potter got out just as quickly and it beeped as I locked it. I stared straight ahead at the two uniforms; I was in a hurry to get this over with however it was quite weird when Potter came up beside me and I could hear his double time pace just to keep up with my walk. I grimaced at his short stature but noticed just how carefully determined his expression was.

The way I approach a job or case or however you want to call it is usually the same no matter what level of cruelty it falls on because it is a simple formula that we as detectives always follow. You have your victim or victims and you have your perpetrator or perpetrators and it is our job to revive or resurrect, whatever way you wish to word it, to restore the crime as if it were happening over again, like a movie being filmed after the actors have done their work and left; we find the pieces, however entirely scattered they are, we find the parts through all the lies and secrets and concealments, we build them up again and create truth. It might be rough at first, cracks unfilled and blank scenes in-between the formats, missing minutes or hours or days even, but we work and work at it, well, the good ones do, until it's a masterpiece, polished and real and the honest truth; justice.

Sometimes we fail, sometimes that truth is too hard to reach, there are far too many lies outweighing one person's integrity, their faith, and the voices of victims through their last moments on the planet go unheard; there wasn't enough left behind to prosecute a suspect and it doesn't matter about the feeling that you get in your gut or the uneasiness you could feel when you look in their eyes that are doing their very best to mask over the guilt, it doesn't matter if you know absolutely who it is, if you know the truth deep down, without evidence and a confession they walk free.

And, despite how much I can't feel I know what I have to do for this job. I dig, as deeply as I must, to unearth that truth and I may not have passion or a sense of obligation or that righteousness that crown prosecutors walk around with like a halo above their heads; but I've seen enough death and grievance and oppression, I've seen innocence doused in gasoline and burned for nothing, I've seen hope murdered blind and ugly and I won't ever ignore those things that I have witnessed, no matter how easy others do, no matter how fast others give up.

I am not, nor will I ever be, that kind of man.

So I know right from wrong and I know when right matters and when wrong can hurt people, I don't always follow that way, I can't care for that as much as others do but I know that I have to live with the choices I've made, the life I've built and that's all it is that makes a man really, that's what I believe.

Mechanically I showed the two uniforms my badge booklet and Potter fumbled with his.

"It's the top floor," one of the uniforms said. "Mind the cats; they've been here for about an hour trying to round them up." I took a glimpse at his sleep deprived eyes and wrinkled trousers. He was younger than Potter, 20 or so, fond of binge drinking would be a near assumption.

"Do you know how many she had?" Potter asked before I could move us along under the blue tape.

"I heard a woman come across say she had close to forty I think it was," the other officer implied as his almond colored eyes were cheerful as he looked over Potter.

I walked off and under the tape and towards the main front entrance and behind me I heard Potter jog to catch up. Up the path we went and through the double glass doors and the entryway smelt like some sort of soup mixed with laundry detergent.

"It's an old building," Potter said quietly as he looked around at the linoleum floors and plain beige walls. I was busy pressing the lift button again and again.

"Retirement housing," I muttered.

"It's out of order," Potter said, his voice further away for he had gone over to the stairwell.

I put my hands in my pockets and followed. We headed up the flights of stairs, the chipped walls echoing our footsteps and I heard nothing else and the scent of old people grew stronger further up. My mind was blank as I trailed behind Potter, watching the spilt sun through the dusty windows capture that distinctive green color and his right hand slid up the metal railing with each flight, my eyes catching the cuff of his sleeve each time, glancing over the small space between the material and the beginning of his wrist, that hollowness. I had a head ache, I felt confined in this mothball scented building.

When we reached the top floor we were met with a long corridor and it was easy enough to tell which flat was ours without having to make the attempt to remember. There was only one constable by the open door that was cordoned off with the same blue tape. An RSPCA worker was lifting up another carrier and I could hear the hissing and mewing coming from the group of cats inside. I wondered how the pathologist faired with all these felines strutting about the scene.

And immediately I could smell the odor that practically blanketed the air, of thick ammonia and cat feces and pet dander. I've smelt many horrendous things in my life but it didn't do my nose any favors at prepping it for this particular smell. My opinion on cats was neutral, I never saw the point in having a pet but in this moment I hated the furry mongrels and didn't understand why Potter was so obsessed with them.

Potter was ahead of me as I hung back because the smell was everywhere and it stung my eyes and I was counting animal control lucky for having their little getups. The pathologist was there, waiting by the door. It was the same young woman from my case last month with the trampled club girl. I could recognize the bit of dirty blonde hair that wasn't tucked away in her suit's cap. Potter seemed more well acquainted with her however as he greeted her gladly.

I forced myself to move closer. The corridor was mostly empty but for a maintenance man who was mopping down the way and a thin woman holding a white cat in her arms as she stood near our pathologist.

"Hello detective sergeant," the pathologist said to me as her silvery blue eyes met my own. "I was only expecting one of you."

Like before with the bizarre names, this young lady's was Luna Lovegood and shared Potter's trait for being vertically challenged. The terms dotty and awkward often come up in my mind while conversing with her. She has this faraway stare constantly while saying almost anything.

She gave me a wistful smile and her eyes turned back to her board.

"I'm a bit perplexed with this one," Ms. Lovegood began and she went over to the wall and bent down to reach for a box of the same color blue gloves as she wore from her kit. Standing, she held the box out to us as she looked over her report. "A female; in her late seventies. Her name is Mary Ackley according to the ID we found and what her neighbor's told us. As for the cause of death it looks as if she's been stabbed with a kitchen knife. It was once in the chest; her heart was punctured. She's been dead since early this morning, I would say around seven thirty or so. From the size of the knife's handle it's a fairly large blade, eight inches. There's one set of fingerprints but it looks as if they match up with the victim's so I can say the knife belonged to her though we haven't found any other set of prints and with all the cats it's been difficult. There's hair everywhere, dander. We're trying to confirm if it was an attempted robbery—"

"Was anything stolen?" Potter asked as he and I put on the blue gloves.

"That's the thing, nothing looks like it's been tampered with, well, there are a few open drawers in the bedroom so I can't say if something's gone missing and she lived alone so the option you have is to ask how many visitors she gets and who exactly knows her well enough to say what was in her property. This young lady," she pointed indolently at the woman holding the white cat without lifting her dreamy stare from the clipboard, "her name is Crystal; she told the uniform in there that no one visits but herself and they've had a few robberies here before but no one was harmed."

"Her husband died a good number of years back, six or so," it was the woman named Crystal who said this. I focused my attention on her. She was far too petite as her red blouse looked a size bigger than what fit her and her dark brown hair was in a messy bun but she was pretty, pale blue eyes and thin pink lips. The blush she was wearing saved her face from looking washed out. She was nervous and her eyes looked frightened, red rimmed from tears shed, holding the fuzzy cat as it were a stuffed toy. "I found her and called the police…"

Before I could speak up Potter had stepped forward, smiling softly at the woman who was half a head taller than him.

"Was there anything unusual that you may have seen, Miss?" he asked in a simple tone of voice.

It was the normal way to sound with questioning a possible or solid witness so we don't come off as threatening or alarm the witness further if they are not in a comfortable mind set which no witness really is after seeing a dead body even if it could have been a complete stranger.

"The door was cracked open just a tiny way," Crystal answered.

"Two windows in the flat are open but like I said before, no unknown fingerprints," Ms. Lovegood interjected, her floating voice so tranquil that it might have been as if she were talking in her sleep. "So our hypothetical thief could have been cautious enough to wear gloves."

"She…she doesn't have much jewelry," Crystal stammered. "Just a few necklaces and earrings, a charm bracelet I think, and her wedding band of course."

Potter had our standard interview notepad out as he was recording her accounts of the dead old woman.

"Her wedding rings are still on her person," Lovegood added.

"How often do you visit, Miss?" Potter asked.

"Every time I visit my grandmother here, about twice a week," she stated and her voice shook somewhat and she was petting the cat now as its eyes were drowsy. Potter kept smiling at the white furry mongrel.

"She forgets you see, to lock her door, she's not right up there, Alzheimer's, and it's quite bad…she thinks her husband is still alive a lot, that he's coming back from wherever he's gone, sometimes that he's right behind her so she doesn't lock the door and she just…waits some days…She goes to the supermarket for her cats during the week and sometimes I bring her groceries or food I've made for my grandmother, I make a bit of extra for her…" Crystal was looking at the three of us, shaking, ocean eyes swimming with tears as if she had to tell us these things in which we would have asked about anyway and I could understand, without the use of past tense in her words, that she really was feeling terrible about the woman's death.

It is difficult for us to deny any witnesses as being a suspect of a murder for many reasons; one because it isn't a very professional thing to do to write off someone as innocent just because they look so very innocent and clueless, two because so many things are possible no matter how logical of a thinker you are as a detective, three; I happen to be quite excellent at telling if someone is lying to me or not no matter how impossible it may appear that they couldn't be a suspect, false alibis or concrete vouchers are easy to sift through or pass by without a second glance.

It is often how we perceive others that can make or break us so the logic in that is to never trust anyone until you are sure that you can and even at that point don't trust them. Evidence, concrete evidence is the key that will lock a suspect's confession or burn their lies up instantly; it is what we rely on but it is not always a safe foundation to fall back on. I'm not saying instinct will get you too far either but there are times where it can be your lifeline to keep you from floating out in the sea of deceit.

Now, without really concentrating you could assume that Crystal knew Mrs. Ackley in a personal matter, felt pity for her in her loneliness with her swarm of feline companions and that was the main reason she visited or perhaps she really did like Mrs. Ackley and visited her just because she desired it. Depending on Mrs. Ackley's possessions, if she had something valuable, you could step over the top and say that Crystal, who was not married and who I could tell was very unconfident and most likely worked as a school teacher but disliked her job very much and was nervous that she was a smoker but didn't know how to cope with the stress otherwise and was scared to quit, perhaps you could suggest she had a boyfriend considering the hickey mark poorly concealed with the loose collar of her blouse, and this boyfriend was a deadbeat who couldn't get a proper job to save his life and cared for drinking far too much but the both of them were young, early twenties, denying the responsibilities that threatened their young lives down every road; bills, school loans, the basic cost of living, a desire for fine handbags and Prada shoes did a number on her credit card, and you can take a guess, out of the blue, because it wasn't as if it had never happened before, that the boyfriend thought stealing would get them out of whatever debt they had fallen in, that robbing old people would be a lot less intimidating than robbing a drug store or garden shed or car, and you can let your train of thought reach out further that Crystal here, even with her caring heart, couldn't deny his desperate and hasty ideas and it was most likely his first time; anxious, stupid, and scared shitless but still he could have done it, could have ignored Crystal's warnings and went for it in the early morning and it had the worst results possible. Don't forget, a killer hardly ever looks like a killer; at least I can speak from personal experience. All it takes is the right amount of desperation and a blanking mind.

But no, it didn't happen that way. Crystal smokes, yes, I could smell it even with the cat odor, she did have a hickey and she did wear designer things but through her insecurity and fear and credit card bills she was harmless and so was her boyfriend who might be afraid of commitment but that's a shot in the dark.

And I knew this because she wouldn't be here if it had happened that way, she wasn't that brave or a pristine actor or else she would have a better job. She worked with children, she loved her grandmother, she smoked though she wanted to quit, her boyfriend was lucky to have her; she was your average girl with a very attractive guiltless face.

"Thank you Miss. Do you mind waiting for a few moments in case we have further questions?" Potter said gently.

"No, of course not, I just…don't know why anyone would do something like this…This place needs better security," Crystal sniffed and Potter nodded once.

"We'll look over the body now, Luna," he said to Ms. Lovegood.

"Go right ahead," Lovegood responded and smiled politely down at her clipboard.

It was then that the two of us ducked under the blue tape across the doorway and we stepped into the sitting room of Mrs. Ackley's flat. Inside there was an RSPCA agent rounding up another bundle of cats that were all hissing and hiding about in corners and under furniture, a forensic tech filling out a form beside the front door, and the uniform waiting mindlessly by the wall to our right.

To my surprise, despite the great amount of cats the old woman had owned her place was well kept but dusty and I had to wonder if the cleaning lady avoided this flat all together because she didn't like the cats but was too nice to report the number of them. I knew that with many old flats such as this building, things often go unnoticed or ignored.

She had antique style furniture, a couch, an armchair, bookcases and cabinet shelving, carpet that used to be beige but was stained, pictures lined the tan walls, replicated oil paintings only, there were cat toys splayed about here and there, a ball of yarn tangled all over floor and armchair, litter boxes that needed cleaning and the air was so thick with the smell that I could only manage short intakes of breath and I could see the amount of cat hair caught in the light that basked in through the kitchen windows.

And she was dead in the kitchen that was straight ahead. She was small, shorter than Potter, lying lifeless and frail on the white linoleum floor, I could see the black knife handle protruding from her chest, the blood that coated her brown cardigan.

The tech gave me a nod as did the uniform who was texting on his mobile. In cases like these we first gather evidence, determine the cause of death, find out if it was foul play and inform the victim's family so they can identify the body and we begin our search for the suspect and most of the time questioning witnesses begins immediately to have the freshest statements we can get. Time is important, especially if it is a murder and the suspect is nowhere to be found because with every minute that drills by that's another minute the murderer has gotten away with it, another turn of the clock that they're free and running from us.

And yet, here, I couldn't determine this a crime scene. Nothing out in the open was in disarray and I couldn't comprehend the amount of time a suspect would use to clean up after they'd killed an old woman. My head ache pounded more intensely and I was hungry and wondering how long this was going to take. It gets like this on most days, where I feel lethargic and bleary eyed and almost cold. I don't know if I mind it or not, I don't have anything to complain about so I pay little attention to it.

As I was headed towards the dead body Potter had something else in mind. He crossed the sitting room, looking around quickly before turning left and walking down the short hallway. I cursed in my head and criticized whatever motivated him to wonder about the old woman's flat before checking the body.

Needless to say, I followed him. Why? Because I wanted to get out of this foul smelling flat as soon as possible, back out in the fresh air, take my clothes to the cleaners because it was the only way it would get the scent off of me otherwise and scrub myself in the bath multiple times over because the sickening atmosphere felt like it was clinging to my skin through my clothes. A black cat scurried past, meowing as the worker went after it and I stepped aside, scowling and made my way down the hall.

There were only four doors; one that was a closet, one opened that belonged to the master bedroom, another to the restroom, and the last was the second bedroom which was at the end of the hall and was the one Potter had gone in.

Wary of the dark spots on the carpet floor I moved carefully to the room wanting to gag because the smell only grew thicker with lack of ventilation. How could anyone stand to live like this? I could only be grateful that the woman hadn't horded anything else but cats.

Potter was standing in the center of the small cluttered room. It was cluttered with model airplanes. There was a table that was displayed with them in the center, like a workbench and it was dark in the room but for one small window. Potter walked around carefully, almost from corner to corner, his footsteps on the dusty wooden floor barely audible. He didn't touch anything and from my place in the doorway I could see that this was her husband's hobby, dedicated to airplane models. I could make out pictures of the husband and the wife in all times of their life, young and old; they were everywhere and the planes, plastic and wood and metal and tiny wheels and wide wingspans and delicate crafts and painted colors and emblems and logos all displayed on grimy shelves and the biggest model hung from the ceiling, lines of the transparent string outlined by the light of the day that fought through the window and its chipped paint.

I could tell, in the silence and even with my month long or so hatred of him and piled misgivings; those shaded green eyes were roaming through history, these two strangers and their history, their life and time and happiness and achievements and fortunes and their love. A tomb is what this was and strangely enough as I was impatient and cold I could see that he was paying his respects to this tomb, to the dead, to two forgotten souls and the peaceful life they had shared.

"You're wasting time," I said because this wasn't some sort of sappy film we were making.

Potter turned to face me, the streak of daylight colliding with his left eye and it stood out crazily in the dim shadow of this dead man's museum.

"Sorry," Potter muttered and he walked over to me and I moved aside as he brushed past me and I smelt something like an apple orchard and felt such revulsion that it was an enormous relief from the rancid odor of cats and the rigor mortis of an old woman. I stopped asking myself a while back why I just couldn't get used to certain smells.

Potter moved on to the master bedroom which was crowded with furniture. A wide bed with a thick quilted blue blanket, wooden wardrobes, stuffed animals, dying flowers in a vase on the bedside table, folded clothes in a laundry basket, an old tattered rug on the floor and covered in cat hair as was everything in the house I will mention again. I let Potter be the one to search the woman's jewelry box which was just a small oak box and the twinkling sound of the classic melody that filled the bedroom somehow managed to startle me.

Potter had opened the music box's lid and inside was a turning glass bear trinket. Potter shut the box and opened the slots and it appeared that the little amount of jewelry Mrs. Ackley had owned was valuable, gold chains, a silver bracelet, pearl earrings but nothing was misplaced. Next, Potter searched through the open drawers and gave me a shrug and a shake of the head.

He was basically telling me that the idea of this being a robbery wasn't adding up. Normally thieves, especially scared thieves, flee if they are caught no matter by whom. Though it is safe to say that if a robber had killed Mrs. Ackley, had committed a murder, if he wasn't in the soundest of minds, he would have fled, would have forgotten all about robbing the place. I could safely say that this wasn't done by someone who was a veteran with the vocation of being a burglar, no; all of this was beginning to seem peculiar.

We moved on to the body next after Potter did a second inspection of the bedroom though it had already been dusted for prints.

"She doesn't have any children to contact," Potter told the uniform.

"What makes you say that?" he asked, his brow furrowing, his hat tucked under his arm. Ms. Lovegood was now waiting at the doorway inside and Crystal was before the blue tape with her head turned away from the view of the flat.

"No pictures of them, not a single one," Potter responded. "As you can tell, she loved to put up pictures. You can run a scan but I doubt you'll come up with anything besides her deceased husband."

The man looked impartial at the information and I felt like rolling my eyes though I knew Potter's words were factual. What grandmother doesn't keep photos of her children and grandchildren?

"She couldn't have children," Crystal piped in from the doorway. "Didn't adopt either; like I said, no one visits her…" Her sentence trailed off and she looked away again, forlornly down the corridor as the maintenance man was mopping his way by.

Potter and I went over to the body. Her skin was turning a grayish color, wrinkled and she had a bruise on the top of her right hand. Her hair was short, white and curled. Her arms were at her sides, head tilted to her right, hands positioned palm down, her sleeves on her cardigan were rolled up, her eyes were closed, jaw slackened. She had on a long flower-pattern red skirt, nude stockings, white stretch walkers, her legs parted but straight. It looked as if she had fallen down of course.

The kitchen was cramped, its counters were flush with the wall to our right, a round breakfast table set in the left far corner with two white chairs. There were many small bowls set out, filled with either water or cat food and the bag of the food was tipped over and crumpled on the floor near the bowls, the bits of brown pet chow were in disarray all over.

I am a logical thinker, I think of common happenings, frequent displays of human behavior, what is normal or statistical in the crime world and I am not the one to be given cases involving imperceptible solutions that I could attempt to figure out in a small space of time; the abnormal things are somewhat foreign to me or rather I don't think of them much and they are incredibly few and far between in my experience or insight.

And so I simply watched Potter examine the situation. First he looked out the open window and hurried back to the body and very carefully did he study the few tears in Mrs. Ackley's right leg's stocking and the lines of dried blood; the wound was just above the ankle. He went on to the knife and studied the handle and this was where he began to open drawers until he found two other knives that were a part of the same brand as the knife stuck in Mrs. Ackley's heart.

He then found the plastic green cutting board in the sink and examined that and then he went to the fridge and opened it. I raised an eyebrow as Potter took out a container that had plastic wrap over it and pulled it back to see the slices of mango and cantaloupe inside.

"It's fresh," Potter muttered and he placed the container back in the fridge and shut the door. "She was cutting fruit this morning."

"And?" I said skeptically.

"No one broke in, even with an unlocked door at the ready," Potter said. "There's only cat hair on her. The force of the knife wasn't great enough to drive all the way to the heel, so the fall—"

"The fall?" I interrupted.

Potter nodded.

"It was just an accident," he replied with ease and leaned against the counter behind him. "She went shopping this morning, purse is on the desk by the door; she bought cat food and maybe fruit but that doesn't really matter. She's old, feeble, too many cats for her to watch out for, she was feeding them; hungry cats can be quite eager when you feed them. She treads on one of them, the cat scratches her; their claws must all be quite sharp with so many of them; Mrs. Ackley is startled, drops the bag of food, trips over another one, possibly the same one, what have you," Potter moved over to the sink and grabbed up the cutting board, "Hasn't been washed, smells like mango. The knife was resting on this on the counter right next to the sink." Potter placed the board like he had described. "Her hand strikes it on accident as she's falling and knocks it off. She meets the ground and the knife comes straight down; they're tall counters, her body is almost parallel with them." Potter gave me a nod. "She couldn't take care of them let alone clean her flat. She walked with a cane." He pointed to the dark brown wooden walking stick that was hung over the chair by the table. "It must have been hard when her husband died…"

I didn't know what to respond with. Accidental deaths, especially in the kitchen, were common and incredibly common amongst the elderly, those who think they can still live independently and having 40 or more cats doesn't help that issue. So what did I think of Potter's conclusion? It was plausible; in fact, it was most likely what had happened.

"What about the door? It was open?" I said and I was banking on with as much care as Mrs. Ackley had for bundle of cats, more like an army; that regardless of her deteriorating mind would she forget to close the door having so many cats that she kept to fill the emptiness left behind of her husband's absence? I honestly was just ready to leave this place and go home early.

"I don't think she would have forgotten to close it," Potter was saying as he walked over to the sitting room. "The door handle is old, looks like it's never been replaced." As the uniform and everyone else was watching him Potter took hold of the brass knob. "It jiggles." Potter looked around the room and everyone remained silent. Before I knew it he was over by the sofa on his hands and knees, grabbing something from under it.

When he stood he was holding what looked to be a red cat scratcher that pet owners could hang on door handles.

"Was this often on the front door, Miss?" Potter questioned Crystal who was staring oddly at him.

"Uh…yes, yes it's always on there; I think there's another on the bathroom door," Crystal answered.

Potter walked over and I could already guess what he was going to do.

"I'm going to close the door," he said to the girl and she nodded quickly.

Potter placed the scratcher hanger on the knob, gave it a tug at the bottom a few times and in the next moment the door cracked open.

"My cat does it all the time to the closet door at…home, they must have dragged it under the couch," Potter said, eyes lowering and he nodded again as he opened the front door all the way. Potter, expression vacant of whatever triumph he had felt for solving this fiasco of a not after all crime scene, picked up a tiny white kitten that had wandered over to his feet. "It's a firm possibility that that's all that happened. It's not unheard of, stabbing yourself with a kitchen knife." Potter was petting the kitten behind its ear. "Do you have anything?" His eyes were on me now as Ms. Lovegood was making a note on her clipboard.

I took a glance at Mrs. Ackley and her wedding band, the big diamond settled between tinier ones, at the cutting board and the knife and the blood that soaked around it through her cardigan and the odor was still stinging my eyes and I couldn't imagine anything else, even with all the brutality I've seen; there was peace in this old flat, a certain peace that had existed even with so many mewing mongrels hopping about. Somehow I imagined her sitting in her armchair, cats fighting to rest on her lap, her aged but humble stare upon the door, waiting for a man who would never arrive and at last, if I could believe in such a thing, she had gone to him instead.

"It makes sense…" I replied quietly, thinking of all the other cases I'd been through where the killings never make sense no matter how the confessions go; the insanity behind them was a constant reminder to myself that we can lose control in so many ways, whether if we have a desire to smother our children in their sleep or choke our spouse until their windpipe is crushed or we are too old and too proud and too sad to accept help, where we realize we will die alone and then we gather a lot of cats and never put away keepsake treasures that let us live in a time that's been long since finished…

"A freak accident," Potter said as he turned to face Ms. Lovegood.

"And with such a nice day too," she said abstractedly as she closed her clipboard. "I'll go call the dispatcher and fetch a body bag."

From here things went as smoothly as these sorts of things can go. The photographs of the scene had already been taken, the knife was bagged, the body was bagged and taken away to a coroner's office where bodies usually go; the techs were doing their thing, a supermarket receipt had been found in Mrs. Ackley's handbag with today's date and said the old woman had purchased cat food and the fruit, the uniforms were speaking to the owners of the building and Potter was outside talking to animal control. We were done, the resolution had been quite effortless and I was busy thinking the day had been one of the weirdest I've experienced because with Potter everything was feeling so off kilter.

And yet like he had been doing I was standing in the dim airplane room. I ponder the same things a lot with dead people. It's odd, I know, perhaps a bit fanatical but I can't help but wonder what happens to all their stuff, their belongings. All they get is boxed up and sold or taken to the dump. Memories; everything here were memories encased in objects. Wedding photos and holiday travels and candid moments all behind dirtied glass, all left here with no one to claim them, with no one to keep them.

I don't know if I think about death a lot, perhaps I used to but my eyes wandered all over the model aircrafts, the precision and skill and patience and passion held together with glue. It puts things in a sort of lackluster perspective for me. Just like our belongings we get packed away in the darkness and buried under earth, the sunlight sealed off and we decay and we break apart, brittle and cracked and dust.

But seeing death suited me, it gives me things I don't know where else I would find them; a minute sense of will, of determination and purpose; I question things, I find that truth the dead deserve; we speak for them, we're the only ones who count you see, we're the only ones who continue their legacy even if only for a short while. But of course I can't help but think that there should be more peaceful sceneries like this one but I have no control over that; I come after these people lose their control, I step in flawlessly with the current's flow and accept things for what they are; I'm not aware if I have another choice.

A lot of people say to live life to the fullest.

Maybe I should get a hobby.

Very quickly I let my right hand knick the smallest model from a molded shelf; a red Cessna. I pocketed it and took the blue gloves off and left the building.

Outside Potter was walking away from the RSPCA van as it was driving off. I could still smell the flat's conquering odor as if it were stuck in my nostrils. Potter was smiling softly, cheeks somewhat flushed. I glared at him as I entered my car. He got in and we drove off.

"Do you want to get lunch?" Potter asked when we were halfway down the street.

"No," I responded as soon as he finished the question.

"O—k," Potter muttered and he looked out the window again and I put down mine to get some more fresh air.

When we were parked outside the station Potter's expression was set in that devoted misery again and he had rubbed at his face about seven times on the way back. I thought about his car and it being packed with boxes and then I thought about Haggerty and his explanation of Potter's medical leave. Was the boy stable? I didn't want to judge; no, I did want to judge, I wanted to judge him in every way I could but it was difficult and again I was staring at his right wrist; how skinny it was, how his hands looked like they really did play the guitar; I could spot a few old calluses on his fingertips.

He was bearable to be around when he wasn't speaking I thought.

"Hey," Potter began, bursting the thought in my head instantly.

"What?" I said as I took off my seatbelt and checked my mobile. I had two messages and one missed call.

"Do you want to go to a pub after we're done?" he suggested and I thought I was hearing things. "There's this one close to here—"

"Look," I said crossly and I finally faced him as I turned off the engine, swiping my keys from the ignition. "I don't _want_ to work with you, at all and I definitely don't want to go to lunch with you or out to a pub with you. Let me give you some advice for the future that will best serve you and whatever sort of _guidance_ you're in need of. We will keep this work related only; which means I _only_ want to see you during work. You do your job and I'll do mine and you stay out of my way now get _out_ of my car."

"Guidance? Kingsley said that?" Potter responded as if that were the only thing that reached his ears.

"_Yes_. And to add on to what I was saying; if you ever mess up during a questioning while working with me I'll do whatever it takes to hock you off on someone else," I said tightly.

And Potter glared at me; something I hadn't expected his airheaded self to do. His green eyes were slightly piercing, the color darkened.

"I don't need guidance, I don't need your help whatsoever," Potter said blatantly.

"Oh, I'm glad we cleared that up then," I stated with heavy sarcasm. "Go inform Kingsley and perhaps he'll stop thinking you're a walking time bomb—"

"What the fuck do you know!?" Potter suddenly let out.

"You attacked your suspect; you lost it," I said and I had no idea where this energy was coming from. "What does that show? Nothing that's considered promising, Potter. Once that happens you're on thin ice and now I'm stuck with that responsibility."

"I said I don't need your help, _Snape,_" Potter snapped and he undid his seatbelt in a frustrated motion and tugged down his tie. "It won't happen again and you don't need to worry at all of a chance that I might make you look bad."

"Oh fuck you, Potter," I scoffed. "Like I give a shit about what the sods in there think of me."

"You're doing the same shit that got you transferred here; it's like you want people to hate you," Potter said spitefully.

"And we have a winner," I mocked. "Who let you in on that? Was it Williams? The wanker who always sends you to get his tea? Bolton, who constantly has you running off to fetch him cigarettes? What's worse, Potter, tell me, me being a prick to everyone or your absolute submissiveness to other people, especially men—"

"Shut up—"

"Are you sure you don't prefer dogs to cats? Because it seems like you're everyone's bitch here, Potter—"

"Go fuck yourself," Potter said acidly.

"Get out of my _car_."

Potter did so but as he stood outside on the curb, holding the car door open he said resentfully:

"He cut her up, the baby girl, he cut her up and buried her in a ditch; a dog had to find her. I wanted him to admit it, to say it out loud…but he wouldn't. He just laughed."

My cold gaze didn't falter on those green eyes blazon with the afternoon's sun. Potter shook his head and then slammed the passenger door with conviction and took off down the street.

I hit the steering wheel with a balled fist and leaned back in my seat, sighing, my head feeling like a stampede of horses were stomping around in my skull, my pulse throbbing in my ears. I stared at Potter's back that was getting further and further away trying not to wonder where he was going for he had passed his car already.

I knew I had acted foolish, entirely childish but I didn't know why. It had just came and went because now, sitting here I was no longer annoyed or angry or anything; my stomach was empty and I needed a paracetamol. Why had I gone off like that on him? Why had I even put in that effort when I barely knew him? Did he really need to know of how other people treated him? What did that say about me? Had I only been jeering him? Or was I genuinely angry that Potter lets these people use him like they do?

Fuck. I didn't want to think about it, I just didn't want to work with Potter for who knows how long and yet I hadn't expected him to be capable of figuring out how a lonely old woman accidentally stabs herself with her kitchen knife or of having those green eyes; of shouting at me and looking so livid and all I could picture in my mind was the scar I had seen only a moment ago; the thin zigzag scar on his forehead above his right eye that had been hidden behind his bangs before; like a bolt of lightning.

I hated him, I did, and I didn't know him.

But it had begun and the nameless road was waiting and I had to wonder how ruined I was right now and how ruined a person could become until there was nothing left and those eyes were like green hills full of the brightest summer, as if possessed by that light.

* * *

A/N: And that's Chapter 1, please review if you have the time and tell me what you think.

Like I explained after the Prologue, every writer must take a few truths and twist them to fit the story and as for Belgravia Police Station in the City of Westminister in greater London I have ignored many things like, to my knowledge, there is no Child Abuse Investigation Command at the Belgravia Police Station and I do not know exactly how they send out their detectives to crime scenes only that they will definitely have more than two detectives on a crime scene that has involved more than one murder or multiple crimes by one or more persons. Though, for this story, I wish to add a bit of the spice that television gives crime shows and for this chapter I started off with something simple, a dead body and a reason behind for said dead body not being a murder victim but accidental (however silly).

I will explain this now, do not expect this story to follow the true structure of how murder crimes are solved in greater London because I don't have all the answers. I will be making up a few things but also doing my best to be logical but as to not derail the story and lose the story I want to tell that is revolved around Harry and Snape and the people in their lives and the situations that they take part in. I want this to be full of drama and action so I might aim high for things that may not be as accurate as I want them but that is why this is a fictional story.

I do not have all my facts but am going off some fictional prospects. I am not aware of how the actual police station is set up inside so I am going off my imagination and what research I have discovered. I am not implying anything real about the department and its people, all characters and incidents are fictional and are not representations of actual crimes. I will try to follow the law as best as I can as well as correct police procedure but I will note that I may fail to always do that to assist the story as well as limited information for I am a novice with crime/mystery genre.

With that being said I will explain that you will find out more about the characters in future chapters, I know I only presented a few in this first chapter.

And as for the RSPCA I really don't know if they operate the same way as the ASPCA here in the US so I'm sorry if they aren't the ones who take care of people who hoard cats.

I hope you all look forward to more, thank you for reading : )


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